


Two Trees

by LakeWitch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Autumn, Blow Jobs, Bonfires, Characters Watching Disney Movies, Depression, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Field Trip, Forests, Hand Jobs, Hiking, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Lakes, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Marshmallows, Masturbation, Meddling Pansy Parkinson, Minor Ron Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Muggle Studies, Muggle Technology, Mulan (1998) References, Nature, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Partying, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Professor Flitwick is not a very attentive chaperone, Protective Ron Weasley, Room of Requirement Shenanigans, Roommates, Scars, Sectumsempra Scars, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Television Watching, Touch-Starved Harry Potter, Very very minor, alcohol use, but he's going through a lot ok, despite all that I don't feel this is heavy, fall - Freeform, heart-to-heart chats, not explicitly described though, sleeping on shoulders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LakeWitch/pseuds/LakeWitch
Summary: In his Eighth year at Hogwarts, part of Draco Malfoy's probation is to see a Mind Healer once a week. Another part, unfortunately, is having to take Muggle Studies.It wouldn't be so bad, really, if it weren't for the mandatory outing—a 'field trip'—booked at a Muggle lakeside retreat for the better part of five days. They're supposed to participate in Muggle activities, like riding in dangerous boats and visiting local farms to stare at sheep and cows or something. And they aren't allowed any magic while there. They aren't even allowed to bring along their wands in case of emergency.And just to make it all worse: Potter and Weasley, and a whole slew of Gryffindors, are going as well.Draco is determined to get it all over with as painlessly as possible. He'll keep his head down, and stay out of everyone's way. That is, until Pansy tells him—at the very last moment—that she's schemed to have Draco stay in the same room with Potter for the whole trip.Just the two of them... in one room.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 255
Kudos: 1542





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> -swearing  
> -Mental illness-related content (depression, anxiety, PTSD, anxiety attacks)  
> -Reference to past torture (not explicitly described), and subsequent scarring  
> -explicit sexual content  
> -18-year-olds drinking alcohol, to excess for some (i.e. getting drunk)
> 
> Please don't read if you suspect any of it will harm you ❤️ Feel free to msg me on [tumblr](https://eelwinks.tumblr.com/) if you have any questions
> 
> The title comes from the song "Two Trees" by Ludovico Einaudi  
> Also, Draco's theme song is "The walker" (vers. eng.) / "La marcheuse" (vers. fran.) by Christine and the Queens, for lines such as:
> 
> "Way better off on my own  
> Since no one cries there's no one to blame
> 
> It hurts, I feel everything  
> As my sense of self's wearing thin"

# Preface

“Draco?” 

He sighed, marking the page with a green silk bookmark. “Yes?” he called out from the comfort of his bed. 

“Draco, the party’s about to start.” 

He peeked behind the bed curtain to glare at Pansy where she stood—several paces away, dressed to the nines in a strapless black dress and heels, with dark purple lipstick on her frowning mouth. Draco, on the other hand, was already in pyjamas. At 8pm on a Saturday. “So?” 

“So come on!” 

“No thanks.” 

“ _Draco_.” Her eyes shot daggers at him. 

“ _What?_ ” Merlin. She never left him alone anymore. He just wanted to read in peace, why couldn’t she let him? 

“Potter will be there.” 

“So?” he asked again. He did not care. He really didn't.

She rolled her eyes. “So you _like_ him, or have you forgotten?” 

“I don’t like him,” Draco bit back. 

“Whatever.” Pansy’s sigh echoed through the empty dorm. “You won’t be able to avoid all human interaction on the Muggle Studies outing.” 

“Watch me,” he answered petulantly, and immediately felt a little guilty. 

Because Pansy meant well. Probably. But the last thing he wanted to do was socialise with people who despised him. 

She sighed again, in a very exaggerated and over-dramatic way while muttering words under her breath, and left Draco’s dorm. Finally. 

Silence returned to the room, as did the heavy weight on Draco’s chest—like a metal chain wrapped around his heart. It seemed to tighten, weaving through his ribcage, heavy and impossible to ignore. He rubbed his knuckles over the centre of his chest, and felt minor relief. 

Why couldn’t everyone just leave him alone? He always felt better when he wasn’t bothered, left to read in his bed. And now, thanks to Pansy, he had to think about everyone in his year having fun without him—drinking Firewhisky, playing party games... Didn’t Pansy know she just made everything worse by pretending he could join them? Pretending that he was just like everyone else, rather than a Death Eater, and a cowardly, weak— 

Draco schooled his breathing, squeezing his eyes tight. No, he was not going to think. He was just going to read, he told himself. 

He opened his eyes and returned to his book. It was fine. He was fine.

# Chapter 1

The grey autumn sky threatened rain as Pansy and Draco were stood in the Hogwarts courtyard near the fountain, partially hidden from behind one of its stone pillars. Their fellow Eighth year Muggle Studies class were spread out around them, all packed with suitcases in hand, and ready for their trip. Some were more excited than others. Draco was... not.

Pansy placed a hand on his arm for balance, and stood on tiptoes so she could whisper in Draco’s ear. “I convinced Flitwick to switch it so you can room with Potter.” 

It took a moment for those words to sink in, for Draco to grasp their meaning. An icy panic chilled his spine, something like dread. “What?” he hissed at her. His face felt terribly hot, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing as much as he thought he was. 

Draco’s eyes darted around the courtyard to make sure no one had overheard Pansy’s announcement. Thankfully, his classmates seemed to be engaged in their own conversations, happily chatting with each other. 

This was not good— 

He couldn’t— 

_Room_ with Potter—? 

Just the two of them... in one room? 

With anxiety flooding his chest, his eyes flicked over to Potter, who was stood with his usual throng of fellow heroes and do-gooders. They were all laughing about something, and Longbottom had Finnegan in a headlock. Potter laughed along with the rest of them, and scratched at the side of his head. 

Draco clenched his jaw, blinking rapidly. 

Potter _hated_ him. With good reason. And Draco... Draco could admit... (privately to himself) after all this time, that he did not hate Harry Potter. Not even a little. But... it wasn’t like Pansy thought... He didn’t want to be Potter’s boyfriend or anything. The very idea was laughable and pathetic. He just... he just didn’t feel the need to bother Potter any longer. 

And Draco’s self-worth was hanging by a thread as it was. He was not going to be able to survive a weak of ridicule, of fighting with Potter. He’d deserve it, of course, but he certainly wasn’t in a good place for it right now. 

Not after having just come out to his parents, and nearly gotten disowned on the spot. Not after living in post-war Hogwarts with the crushing guilt, and backlash, of having been a Death Eater. Not after coming to terms with the reality that everything you were raised to believe had been wrong. The shame that comes with that. 

Fuck, he was starting to spiral again. 

Pansy was grinning up at him. “You’re welcome, darling.” 

He shook his head, glaring at her. She had chosen a very inopportune time to tell him this important bit of information—while surrounded by people, waiting for the Portkeys to take them away to their ‘field trip’. He couldn’t exactly scream at her to keep her pug nose out of his affairs, not in front of everyone. 

His mind was already trying to think up excuses—ways he can get them switched back. He’s allergic to Gryffindors? He’d snogged Potter’s girlfriend and unless Flitwick wants to be responsible for Draco’s murder, he’d better switch them back? (Not true, of course, but what Flitwick doesn’t know...) 

Draco would be perfectly comfortable with Blaise in the original arrangement. Blaise never tried to make him do things he didn’t want to do, Blaise just... _let him be_. Draco didn’t know what Pansy had told Flitwick but surely whatever it was could be undone. 

He fidgeted with the cuff of his green flannel shirt. They were going on some Muggle _retreat_ and they were all forced to wear Muggle clothing (Pansy had picked out his clothes for him—assuring him they were the height of Muggle fashion—ha! As if flannel and blue ‘jeans’ could be described as ‘fashion’ in any circle). What was worse: they weren’t allowed any magic. They weren’t even allowed to bring their _wands_ , for Merlin’s sake. 

So, no magic and stuck in a room alone with Harry Potter—It was already shaping up to be a shit holiday. He must get out of it. He’s sick—he needs— 

Flitwick’s voice brought Draco out of his thoughts. "Everyone! Please place your hands on your Portkeys.” 

Whilst shooting Pansy another frenzied, angry glare, Draco did what he was told, touching the Portkey that Pansy had in her hand—a toy doll with red yarn for hair. 

“Five, four, three, two, one,” Flitwick counted down, with one hand on his Portkey umbrella that he held high above himself to share with four students, and the other hand on his pocket watch to read the time. 

There was that familiar pull, like a hook in Draco’s gut. And then, they landed in a dirt clearing surrounded by dense forest. 

It was so immediately different from the Hogwarts courtyard, that it left Draco feeling disoriented.

The air felt fresh and damp, like just after a rainfall, and smelled of evergreen. Draco took a deep breath, and turned his head to look at the tall trees around him in awe. Birds were chattering in the distance, and for a precious moment, Draco almost forgot about Potter, and found himself feeling... nearly peaceful. That is, until his classmates sprang to life, shoving each other and prattling on, drowning out the sounds of nature with their noise, bringing with it a heavy pit of unease in Draco’s gut. 

Pansy left his side to go to Blaise. Draco watched as she grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him closer to whisper in his ear. Always plotting something, that one. Draco sighed and rubbed at a spot on his chest. 

“Alright, everyone! Follow me!” said Professor Flitwick, holding his now-dormant umbrella Portkey high in the air. 

He led them down a narrow path, single file. Draco hung back, and only started walking once the last person’s (MacMillan’s) back had nearly disappeared through the trees, leaving Draco alone in the clearing for a few blissful seconds. The human voices faded away, leaving forest sounds in their wake. 

There it was, the sense of peace was back. 

Draco walked carefully, minding where he stepped, while pressing his palms against tree trunks for support, feeling the rough bark against his skin. Branches grazed his sleeves and trousers, but he didn’t mind—he was listening to the rustling of leaves in the wind, the chirping of birds. He was noticing how the sunlight fell through the trees in glittering patches. He breathed the air deep into his lungs. 

Now, the chain in his chest felt lighter, felt looser. 

It was... _nice_. 

How could it feel so nice? 

The path wound around massive trees, and started to tilt downhill. Roots from the trees were raised above the ground, so Draco had to mind where he stepped, careful not to trip. 

Then, the path opened up into a... a parking lot. The grey and paved sort, filled with motor vehicles. 

The group of them were already making their way, winding through those garish metal things on wheels, towards a sizable log cabin building on the other end. Its façade featured horizontally-placed dark wooden logs, and tall windows near its centre—seemingly where the lobby was. 

Draco’s eyes caught the back of Potter’s head, his mess of black curls weaving in and out of cars. Draco’s heartrate sped up, just knowing that Potter was going to be upset with him soon. 

They’d been okay this year, so far, but presumably because Draco had stayed out of his way—kept his head down. Granted, he’d tried to stay out of everyone’s way. And now Pansy was about to threaten that semblance of peace. And for what? Did Pansy think simply having them room together would spark some kind of friendship? Or, was it worse—something infinitely more laughable—was she delusional enough to think it could result in romance? 

For one thing, Draco was pretty certain Harry Potter was straight. For another, in the miniscule chance that he wasn’t, Draco had already made far too many mistakes that he’d never be able to make up for. He’d been horrible, he had been cruel, he’d been a sodding Death Eater for fuck’s sake. You can’t come back from that. You certainly can’t come back from that with an 'I’m sorry' and expect Harry Potter to like you. 

In short, he’d ruined any semblance of a chance long ago. That’s why he didn’t disillusion himself to think Pansy’s scheming was anything but a _bad thing_. 

Though, come to think of it, Potter had hated him even before all of his poor choices. Potter hated him when they’d first met, when they were eleven years old, and all Draco had done was offer to be his friend. It doesn’t get much clearer than that. Harry Potter was never going to like Draco Malfoy. 

He trailed in after everyone entering the lobby, and tried to keep a frown off his face. While they all gathered in a circle around Flitwick, Draco hung back and looked around at the simple furnishings—a few plush leather chairs, a crackling fire in a grand stone fireplace, dark hardwood flooring, soft pink walls, and a large front desk where two Muggle employees stood. It was... cosy. Exactly what you’d want a lakeside retreat in the middle of nowhere to be like. 

“Okay class, here are your updated itineraries and info packs. Line up at the counter and get your keys, then settle yourselves in your rooms. We’ll meet at 12:30pm down here in the dining room for lunch,” said Professor Flitwick, handing out folders. 

Draco’s classmates started a queue at the front desk, dispersing when they got their room keys. 

He watched as Potter and Weasley reached the front of the line, and spoke to the Muggle girl there. When she handed over the keys, Draco saw them look down at them, puzzled, then at each other. They said something to the girl. She looked mildly uncomfortable. 

So, now they knew. 

Flitwick handed Draco his information folder. “Here you are, Mr Malfoy.” 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, accepting the folder but not able to take his eyes of Potter. 

Draco slowly approached the counter just as Potter and Weasley walked away from it, with matching confused expressions. They didn’t even spare Draco a glance. He was used to that though. 

He waited for MacMillan to retrieve his key, and then stepped up to the counter. 

“Welcome to Heartlake Resort, can I get your name?” greeted the young girl with straight blond hair down to her shoulders. The nametag on her mauve dress shirt read 'Lucy'. 

“Draco Malfoy,” he said. 

She blinked at him. “Can you spell that?” 

He did. 

“Just a moment, sir, I’ll fetch your key.” 

He turned to lean his back on the counter, in time to spot Potter and Weasley already in conversation with Professor Flitwick. 

Draco watched with... dread, as Potter’s features twisted up in bafflement. 

“But I was supposed to be with Ron,” he said, loud enough for Draco to make out. 

Weasley stood next to Potter, looking royally pissed off. 

“Yes, well, we had to do a bit of shuffling,” said Flitwick. “Some people couldn’t room together due to previously unknown reasons.” 

“Unknown reasons?” echoed Potter. 

Draco swiped a hand through his hair and looked out the lobby window at the parking lot outside. Potter didn’t want this, Pansy was just... making everything worse. 

“Yes, Mr Potter, I’m afraid I can’t provide the personal details.” 

Draco turned back, in time to see Potter’s jaw clench, and in time to see those sharp green eyes flash to his. Draco averted his gaze quickly, and spun back around to face the front desk. His heart had begun to pound. _Fuck_. This was a mistake. He wondered if he could pretend to be sick and get to go back to Hogwarts. 

Then the friendly lady handed him his key. “Room 221, second floor, lifts are to your right.” 

Draco flashed her a weak smile. “Thanks.” 

She grinned back. “You’re most welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay.” 

He dragged his suitcase over to the lift she’d indicated. It had two buttons on the silver panel, one a triangle with the point at the top, the other with the point at the bottom. 

He’d never taken a Muggle lift before, and had only taken the Ministry one with his father (and hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time). But these things were probably straight-forward. The upwards-pointing triangle made sense, so he pressed that one. It lit up in red. He hoped that was a good thing, but had a niggling suspicion it was not. He knew Muggle traffic lights, after all, and red usually meant ‘stop’. 

Nothing happened. 

So he pressed the button again. 

Nothing happened. 

Maybe he’d been wrong. Who knows with Muggles. Everything could be backwards. Opposite. So Draco pressed the down triangle. It lit up red too. 

The lift made a loud rattling noise, paired with a cheerful jingle, and opened. It looked empty, so Draco stepped inside. 

Just then, Potter stepped up to the closing doors. “The lift’s going down, Malfoy,” he said dryly. 

Draco didn’t have time to respond before the doors closed. With a sigh, he looked at the panels of buttons. Two. He was meant to go to two. He pressed the ‘2’ button. It lit up red. 

But the lift certainly did feel like it was going down. It chimed open at level ‘B’, and a bunch of wet children in bathing suits and towels scrambled on. Suppressing a shudder, Draco hunched into the corner, and kept his chin held high. The children chattered very noisily, and one of them mashed the ‘4’ button repeatedly, but thankfully they all paid him no mind. 

The insipid lift made funny sounds again, and closed. 

Then, they seemed to be traveling upwards and the noise happened again. It opened up. It was the lobby, and Potter stood there looking handsome and grumpy, with a rather stiff posture. So, the usual, then. He stepped on with everyone, eyeing the buttons to make sure Draco had pressed the right one. 

The lift did its thing again. It really didn’t seem an efficient means of travel. It made the noise and opened. Potter stepped off and held a hand against the lift door—frame? (He didn’t know the word for it, when the lift door disappears, the frame that remains— _that thing_ ). Was he... waiting for him? That was nice, if the case. 

“Are you coming?” Potter shot him a look over his shoulder. 

The children snickered. 

Draco blinked, and hurried out past the wet kids, suitcase in tow. 

Potter led them down the hunter-green carpeted hallway towards their room, not saying anything. Not complaining or tossing insults out loud, yet, thankfully. Though maybe he was so pissed off he couldn’t find the words. 

The walls were plastered with a red and navy-blue floral wallpaper, which Draco didn’t think matched the carpet at all. Potter stopped at a wooden door marked with a brass '221', and unlocked it with his key, pushing it open with a creak. Potter paused to hold it open for Draco, without looking back. 

He _was_ holding doors for Draco, then. Though, would Draco really expect Potter to let the door slam closed in his face? Perhaps not. But... maybe. 

Draco suppressed a ‘thank you’, thinking it might not go over well. Silence was safest—that was usually his personal motto these days. 

The door to the bathroom was at their immediate right, and a closet to their left. Potter kept walking through and stopped to look at the room. Draco closed the door softly behind himself, and turned towards Potter’s tense back. Why was he so tense? 

Ah. Probably because he was very angry, or... thought Draco might attack him or something. It’d make sense to assume the worst of Draco, since … well, his _past_. 

Biting back a heavy sigh, Draco toed his trainers off, and pushed them into the closet with a socked foot, keeping a wary eye on Potter’s back. 

Potter moved forward, towards a window at the far end, and placed his suitcase down. Then he flopped onto the far bed, on his back, frowning up at the ceiling. 

The old Draco might’ve said something cutting, something stupid, about Potter just lying there on a bed with shoes on. Just to rile Potter up, just to make Potter notice him or be impressed with his wit. But that would be pre-war Draco, and he is gone. 

Instead, he looked around at the light-green wallpapered walls that pealed slightly in places, the ugly brown and yellow abstract painting hanging in between the two double beds—beds which looked decently comfortable with plush white comforters. There was even a telly-vision resting on a low mahogany dresser, positioned so that it could be viewed from lying in bed. 

He brought his suitcase over to the dresser, and opened up the drawers. Empty. Meant for his clothes, then. He clicked his suitcase open and began laying his Muggle clothes inside the drawer carefully. 

“Why am I rooming with you then?” asked Potter. 

Draco jumped. “Hmm?” 

“Flitwick said there was a ‘personal reason’ for the switch.” 

It wasn’t like Draco could just tell him the truth, that Pansy Parkinson had orchestrated the switch on account of a very secret, longstanding, silly, unwise and completely purposeless— _ugh_ —crush. Something she shouldn’t have been able to discover, but Pansy was too perceptive for her own good. For his own good. And she’d thought she was doing Draco a _favour_. He frowned at the pair of grey socks in his hand. “No idea.” 

“If you don’t know, then I guess Zabini requested it. Not getting along with him, then?” 

Draco didn’t look up. “I’m sure I don't know what you mean.” 

Potter just hmph-ed. 

Draco finished carefully placing all of his clothes in the drawers. The last item was his Muggle novel, 'A Clash of Kings'. He grabbed it and snapped the suitcase closed—sliding it against the wall, out of the way. He brought his book over to the unoccupied bed. 

As soon as he sat down, Potter sprung up from his bed. “I’m going to find Ron,” he muttered. 

Draco watched him leave without a word. 

He opened up Flitwick’s information packet, and glanced over the activity pamphlets, ground rules, and meal times with disinterest. He tossed it aside and flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. It had a water stain.

~~

At 12:25pm, Draco put his trainers back on, and patted his jean pocket to make sure he still had his room key. It would be awful to lock it in here, and have to bother Potter to let him back in.

He made his way to the dining room on the ground floor, taking the silly lift again. 

The dining room was well-lit, with large windows that looked out onto a garden. Since it was autumn, though, there wasn’t much to see besides dry, barren bushes and red-leaved trees out there. 

Four-person and two-person tables were spaced throughout the room, decorated with white linen tablecloths and an arrangement of dried flowers in little white ceramic vases. It was already nearly full, both with his classmates and Muggle patrons. He spotted Potter already there, sitting with Weasley and Longbottom. Potter was frowning, leaning forward, telling his friends something. 

Not complaining about Draco, he hoped. 

He sighed and looked around, rubbing absently at the centre of his chest. Luckily, he spotted Pansy and Blaise at a four-person table. He made his way over to sit with them. 

“Draco!” said Pansy when she noticed him approach. “How’s your new arrangement?” She winked at him, grinning. 

He slid into the seat beside Blaise, and shot her a glare. “I’ll thank you to stay out of my affairs in the future.” 

She pouted. “Oh come on. It’ll be fantastic, you’ll see. Tell him, Blaise.” 

Blaise stretched his long legs out, and clapped Draco on the back. “Pansy, dear, Draco is 18 years old, he can run his own schemes.” 

She rolled her eyes. “It isn’t a scheme. It’s more of a... gift.” She grinned at her word choice. 

Draco huffed. 

A waiter came by to hand them menus and take drink orders. 

Draco ordered chicken pot pie and a tea. 

Pansy leaned forward, and shot Draco a conspiratorial look, which he did not appreciate. “At the very least, you’ll get some prime wanking material. I bet he’s the kind of bloke that gets dressed out in the open.” 

He groaned into his hands. He was almost pissed off. He didn’t want to creep on Potter, and the very idea of Pansy thinking he would... He bit back a sharp retort. She... she meant well, he had to remind himself. Well enough, anyway. 

He scrubbed at his face with his hands, and then looked up at her. “Alright, just promise me you won’t do anything else to interfere with me and... and Potter. No more _gifts_.” 

Pansy bit her lip, smiling. “I’ll leave the rest up to you, shall I?” 

“Yes. Please.” he answered earnestly. Fuck, she was impossible. 

She held up her palms in surrender. 

Their food came and Draco ate in relative peace, listening to his friends talk about Muggle politics in America, which Blaise found fascinating for some reason. 

After the three of them finished eating, Professor Flitwick came over with a clipboard and had them sign up for _activities_. 

Pansy and Blaise wanted to go on a motorized boat. 

Draco, who would rather kiss a Hippogriff than risk his life riding in a magicless metal box over a body of water, remembered that brief peaceful walk through the forest earlier. So, he opted for what Flitwick called ‘a hike’. 

“You don’t want to stick together?” asked Pansy, once Flitwick wandered off to another table. 

He shrugged. “I’d rather have a hike.” 

Pansy leaned closer so that she wouldn’t be overheard. “Draco, don’t isolate yourself.” 

He blinked at her. “I just want to walk in the forest.” 

She pressed her lips together and leaned back, watching him. 

“Let him be,” Blaise said to Pansy, not unkindly. 

“Fine.” 

They got up from the table and went their separate ways. Draco found the door that opened up towards the lake. Fresh autumn air hit him like a brick wall, and he breathed it in deep. 

He cast one appreciative glance beyond the stretch of lawn to the blue-green gently rippling water of the lake, before following the wooden signs that pointed him towards the hiking trails. 

He picked one path arbitrarily, something with a yellow sign, and soon was under a canopy of trees, walking a dirt path decorated with fallen leaves. The silence hugged him like a blanket. Though it wasn’t true silence, he could still hear the gentle swaying of the tree-leaves as they brushed up against each other, he heard the distant rustling of a bush—maybe it was a squirrel. He heard a twig snap. But it was the absence of human sounds—the absence of a human _presence_ —that Draco found freeing. The tightly coiled metal chain in his chest loosened. It felt so good, he took another deep breath. 

Dead leaves crunched softly under his trainers. The sunlight falling through the trees made everything seem to glow gold. Here and there, leaves detached from their stems, and floated down towards the ground in complete silence—like a strange, slow rain. It was so beautiful, he wished he’d brought a camera. 

He kept an unhurried pace, with hands shoved deep in his jean pockets, just letting his eyes wander. His mind felt very still. 

Draco stopped to admire a cluster of fan-like mushrooms at the base of an old tree. He crouched down to get a better look. They were chanterelles. Edible. He stood up and kept walking. 

A black squirrel standing upside down on a tree trunk made eye contact with him. Draco paused, and they contemplated each other for a moment, before the squirrel turned, and scurried up the tree. 

He walked on. An hour or so may have passed before he spotted a pair of trees that someone had connected with wooden planks to form a bench. It was on the edge of a steep hill, overlooking thick brush beneath. He settled in with his back against one tree trunk, his feet against the other, and tilted his head back to look at the patches of blue sky he could make out past red and gold leaves overhead. 

Since he seemed to like this one so much, Draco wondered if he could live in a forest. It would be a quiet life, he could have a little one-room wooden cottage, and a fireplace disconnected from the Floo network. He’d be a bit of a hermit, then. He’s heard about those types in books—asocial wild men. There was usually some sort of bear attack in those stories. 

It’d be better than the alternative: continuing to live a life he’d already ruined. He had no future prospects, really. Who would ever hire a former Death Eater? Who would ever _marry_ a former Death Eater? 

No, living alone in a forest could be the best option he’s got for a happy, peaceful life. 

His father would certainly be ashamed of him. Though, he already was, Draco supposed. 

Draco would probably be good at it though. He already knew what plants, berries, and mushrooms were edible, and which were poisonous. He’d have his wand, so he could protect himself from bears. He probably couldn’t grow a proper beard to look the part, though. 

The only real issue might be getting meat to eat. Draco didn’t know if he could muster killing a living thing... not again. 

He sighed and rubbed his eyes, because he couldn’t help but think about that little bird he accidently killed. In the vanishing cabinet. Sixth year. Couldn’t he just fantasize about something properly without the past having to come back to haunt him? 

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, focusing instead on the textured grooves of the tree trunk in front of him. 

“All I’m saying is the git will likely smother you with a pillow in your sleep.” 

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck. It was Weasley. And where there’s Weasley— 

“ _Ron_ ,” said Potter. 

The crunch of leaves under their footsteps got louder. 

“Speak of the devil. Oi ferretface, what do you think you’re doing?” 

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, and schooled his expression into one of indifference, before gathering the courage to look over. Weasley was glaring at him, a glare that reminded him that his very existence was offensive. 

But Potter’s expression was blank. He held a small bouquet of leaves in one hand and was twirling it between his fingers. 

“Sitting,” Draco answered finally. 

The edge of Potter’s mouth quirked up a bit. Was he actually nearly smiling? 

Ron’s eyes narrowed, however. “What was the big idea getting switched to room with Harry?” 

Draco looked away and shrugged. “I didn’t request it. Ask Flitwick.” It wasn’t a lie. 

Ron huffed and mumbled under his breath, “We already bloody well did.” Then, louder, “Whatever. Come on Harry, I’ve had enough of looking at this waste of space.” 

Draco didn’t watch them leave, he stared at his own shoes instead. After a short moment, he sighed and uncrossed his arms. Then, got up to walk back. He didn’t want to run in to Weasley and Potter again on their way back to the resort. 

The walk back was decidedly less relaxing. Possibly due to one Ronald Weasley. Though Draco couldn’t fault him for any of it. They all had every right to hate him. 

When Draco returned, he found Blaise and Pansy in the lobby, sprawled out on leather chairs by the fireplace, chatting happily. He plopped himself down on the floor in front of Pansy’s, and she carded her fingers through his hair, sending goose bumps up the back of his arms. He shut his eyes and savoured the feeling. He felt safe. Protected. Potter and Weasley weren’t likely to approach him there. 

They spent the remaining daylight hours together, talking about Muggle yachts, and Muggle vehicles in general. Talking about nothing important. 

Draco tried not to think about sleeping in the same room with Harry Potter later.

~~

In the evening, Draco went back to the room to find Potter already there, watching the telly and sitting cross-legged on his bed. It was loud, something with young people yelling at each other.

“I should never have trusted you!” a woman screamed to a man on the telly. 

Wordlessly, Draco sat on his own bed. He fidgeted his hands for bit, before deciding to pick up his book. 

“What were you doing with Brian, _Maureen_? You’ve been gone for, like, 15 minutes!” shouted some other woman on the telly. 

“As if it’s any of your business, Crystal!” 

Potter switched off the telly without warning, and the silence was startling. Draco’s heart started to speed up. He didn’t know if this meant Potter wanted to talk or not. Maybe tell him not to try anything in the night? Don’t smother him with a pillow? Draco bit back a sigh. 

Instead, Potter stood up and rummaged around in his suitcase, taking out a sort of jumper that had a hood and a zipper down the front. Draco tried not to stare, so he looked down at the book he was definitely not able to pay attention to, but couldn’t help watching Potter out of the corner of his eye. Just... being aware of Potter. As... as usual, he supposed. 

Potter lingered, standing there, looking at everything but Draco. “I’m gonna go see my mates.” 

Draco lowered his book and looked at him straight on. “Alright,” he replied. 

“I might not come back tonight.” 

“Alright,” Draco answered again, feeling a lump form in his throat. 

Potter could mean a number of things: either just like he sounds—he’s just going to have fun with his mates and might crash in whatever room they’re in, or, he’s got a girlfriend he’ll be shacking up with, or, he’s just not comfortable sleeping in the same room with Draco. Maybe a combination. Whatever the meaning, it made Draco feel a bit sad. A bit lonely. 

Even though he’d never expect Potter to _want_ to spend time with him, even if ‘spend time’ just meant sleeping in the same room. He was just feeling sorry for himself, he realised. When, _logically_ , of course Potter would still find ways to be with his Weasley, his Gryffindors. 

“Well. Night, then,” Potter said. 

“Good night,” he answered quietly. 

The silent room seemed larger after Potter left, and he felt a slight ringing in his ears at the lack of noise. Draco took his white cotton pyjamas to the bathroom to change, locking the bathroom door behind himself with a click. He turned to his reflection in the mirror, and startled. The bathroom light was far too bright, and did nothing for him. He normally didn’t like to look in mirrors these days—now, his reflection looked a bit miserable. 

He didn’t look like 'himself' anymore, hadn’t since Fifth year, if he’s being honest. And now... now he looked like a Muggle, with his flannel and jeans. The cosmetic charms on his hair and on his skin had worn off, and he hadn’t been able to renew them, on account of not having his wand. So, little scars on his face, and the darkness under his eyes showed far too clearly for comfort. And his white-blond hair just fell on the sides, it was down to his shoulders nowadays. 

But his expression was the most startling, he looked so tired, and his eyes... his eyes seemed sad. 

He huffed a dry laugh at himself, being pathetic like this. He stood up straighter and put toothpaste on his toothbrush. He was fine. He brushed his teeth, washed his face with cold water, then took off his clothes to change into the pyjamas. 

A glance in the mirror gave him pause, again. The trials of his life showed harshly on his body, unmistakable and sickening in this bright light. His worst memories were written on his skin—Potter’s scars on his chest, the ugly faded Dark Mark on his arm, the scars on his face from the chandelier falling at home, and the curse scars that ran from his lower back to his thighs. From his punishment. 

Draco didn’t like to look at his body. 

Memories of the Manor from last year threatened to surface, pushing against his mind. But he wasn’t ready to let them through, not now, or he might end up hyperventilating on the floor. 

Draco took deep breaths and closed his eyes, holding on to the towel rack to ground himself. He was fine, he was safe now. 

Voldemort was dead. Most of the other Death Eaters were either dead or in Azkaban. His thoughts repeated those truths like a mantra. 

He opened his eyes and, carefully making sure to avoid looking at the mirror again, put on his soft pyjamas quickly. 

When finished in the bathroom, he climbed right into bed. It was pretty comfortable, not like his bed at the Manor had been, but, comfortable enough. He turned on the lamp and opened up his book—it was a Jon Snow chapter so he was pleased. Jon Snow, Arya, and Daenarys were his favourites. 

Grateful for the distraction, he read until his eyelids got too heavy. Then he closed his book, turned off the lamp, and slipped easily into a peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far ❤️ Feedback is welcome


	2. Chapter 2

He’d forgotten to close the curtains, so the sunrise woke Draco up. He stretched and looked over at Potter’s bed. It was still made up. He hadn’t come back last night, then. 

Draco padded over to the window to look out. He could see the lake, misty and dream-like at this time of day. All the trees that surrounded it were red, orange, and golden yellow. It looked like it was going to be a nice day. 

He turned around and noticed his unmade bed next to Potter’s made one. It seemed a depressing sight, a symbol of his solitude, so he made up his own bed, even though he knew he didn’t have to. Housekeepers came around every day to tidy up, he’d been told. 

Then he got dressed for the day out in the open. He decided on blue jeans (again), a white t-shirt, and a thick brown plaid flannel shirt overtop. The shirts were a bit baggy for him, but, Pansy had thought they looked good, so... 

The hallway was dead silent when he made his way down to breakfast. 

In the dining room, none of his classmates had come down yet, so he settled into a table near an elderly couple. 

“Here with your class, son?” the man asked, tilting his head. 

Draco smiled politely. “Yes, a field trip.” 

"Bit of a party last night,” said his wife (presumably), leaning closer to him. “We heard music into the wee hours.” 

Draco’s eyebrows raised. “Oh. I wasn’t aware...” 

She looked at him approvingly. “Yes, I didn’t think you would be involved with that rubbish. Your classmates will be late risers this morning, I reckon. Maybe you can have a word with them, in case they plan a repeat performance tonight. I do need my sleep.” 

“Ah when I was that age—” began the man. 

His wife glared at him, and he clamped his mouth shut. 

Draco fiddled with the tablecloth edge. So there’d been a party, then. He presumed Potter had been there. He wondered if everyone knew about this party but him. Pansy and Blaise included. 

Then he admonished himself for starting to feel sorry for himself, again. He didn’t expect to be included, he wasn’t a friend to Potter and clan. Draco had been the only one in their class to get the Mark, after all. He will never expect friendship from them, he doesn’t deserve it. 

A waiter came by to take his order: mushroom omelette and a tea. 

He ate in silence, thankfully the elderly couple didn’t try to strike up any more conversation. He tried to keep his thoughts away from self-pity, away from loneliness. Thinking about going outside again cheered him up a bit. 

After breakfast, no one else from Hogwarts had come down yet, so Draco went outside to see the lake. Mist still hovered on its surface, and the space smelled nice—like wet leaves and evergreen. He breathed it in, and felt his tension ease up a bit. The gentle lapping of the water against the rocks on the shoreline had a soothing rhythm. He liked it here, he decided. 

He walked for a while on the shoreline, with hands shoved into his jean pockets, until some trees got in the way of the path, so he had to turn back. Nearer to the main building was an old wooden dock, so he stepped onto it carefully and walked up to the edge. It creaked and shifted under his feet, but held strong. He sat down cross-legged, and looked out. The lake was pretty wide, with a few islands sprinkled through, which he could only just barely make out through the mist. 

Draco listened to the birds singing their greetings to the new day’s sun, as he leant back on his arms. 

A soft breeze ruffled his hair, and it felt rather nice. He wondered if he might keep his hair natural like this. Slicked-back was pre-war Draco’s style—harsh and aristocratic. And he wasn’t like that anymore. 

The sun was getting higher in the sky, and the mist on the lake was starting to clear altogether. 

His thoughts flitted to Potter. He couldn’t help it. He thought about bright emerald eyes—glaring at him, daring him, or the way they softened when directed at a friend—Draco thought about scars and thick black curls. He thought about Potter’s hands, the cadence of his voice. The curve of his mouth. He wondered if he’d ever get to fly with Potter again. Eighth years weren’t allowed on the Quidditch teams, so, probably he wouldn’t. He tried to remember the last time they’d flown together. 

Shit. 

Fiendfyre. Of course. 

Draco groaned, and rubbed his face. He’d meant to think of Quidditch. Even when he was trying to think good things, the bad things kept popping up. 

He stared at the ripples in the lake water in the hopes of quieting his mind, he ran his hands over the rough wood of the dock. He focused on the lapping of the water, focused on the whispering breeze, the fresh smells. He felt a bit cold, he noticed with a start. Cold was good, cold was distracting. 

He was okay.

Draco's eyes strayed to the islands—he wondered if people had ever been on them. They probably had. These Muggles have boats. 

“Draco, there you are,” said Pansy from behind him. 

He turned to look at her, she was eyeing the dock warily. 

“It’s safe,” he said. 

She glanced at him, looking for confirmation, and took a step onto it. Then, realising the whole thing wasn’t going to sink, she made the last few careful steps over to him, and sat down. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, wrinkling her nose and looking around them. “Enjoying _nature_?” She said it like it was a bad thing. 

“Yeah.” 

She sniffed. “Yes, well, we’re going off to some _farm_ today. But it might be alright, they grow pumpkins and apples there. And they have horses.” 

“Oh,” he said, looking out at the island closest to them. 

“So will you come with us, then?” Pansy asked, growing impatient. 

“No, thank you.” He spared her a quick glance. 

She stared at him, glaring. “You can’t mope around all day.” 

“I’m not moping,” he said. At least, he didn’t think he was. 

“Why didn’t you go to Seamus and Dean’s party last night?” 

So, she was there, then. And they were on a first name basis? He rubbed his hand over the rough wood again. “I didn’t know there was one.” 

She stared at him like she was trying to unravel a puzzle. “I thought Potter would’ve told you.” 

“Well, he didn’t.” 

She huffed. “Rude.” 

“It’s fine. Did you have fun?” 

“As much fun as one can have with Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, I suppose. It was okay. I got a bit drunk.” She sighed. “I should’ve come get you.” 

Draco shrugged. “That’s alright, I slept early.” 

She frowned. “Come to the farm.” 

He smiled, as he spotted some black birds circling above one of the islands on the right. “No, I think I’ll stay here.” 

She sighed heavily. “You’re so stubborn. Fine, mope around. Maybe Potter will take pity on you.” 

Draco wanted to groan, wanted to protest that not everything was about Harry fucking Potter. But he didn’t want to snap at her, she really did _care_ , in her own way. “See you later, Pans.” 

She huffed. “Have fun moping, darling.” She kissed him hard on the cheek, and then, she left him. The dock shifted and creaked with her exit. And when she was gone, the silence returned. 

After a while, when the sun was getting higher in the sky, Draco wished he had his book. So he picked himself up, shook out the cramping in his legs, and made his way back up to his room. 

He unlocked room 221, and shoved the key back in his pocket. He went to fetch his book from the bedside table. 

He gasped, there was a dark human-sized lump on the bed. It rolled over. 

“Malfoy,” the lump croaked. 

It was only Potter. Draco willed his heartrate to slow down. Potter hadn’t gone to the farm, then. 

“You look like I feel,” mumbled Potter into his pillow. 

So, like a hangover, Draco thought wildly. He kept walking towards his book. 

“Why are you dressed like that?” Potter asked. 

Malfoy snatched his book, raised it in the air as if that was a suitable response, and got out of there fast. 

He waited until he was back at his spot before he allowed himself to absorb what Potter had said. He sank to his knees at the end of the dock. 

Essentially, he’d said Draco looked awful, and insulted his stupid Muggle clothing. So Draco looked like a hangover and Potter thought he was hideous. 

And he’d be right. Draco was scarred and deformed and... irreparably broken. Inside and out. 

A lump formed in Draco’s throat, and the backs of his eyes began to sting. He blinked rapidly, and clenched and unclenched his hands, willing himself to be rational about this—and failing. 

A few drops of tears fell onto his legs, darkening the denim. He clenched his fists and pressed them hard into his thighs. No, Potter wasn’t calling him ugly. Potter was saying Draco looked how he felt. Presumably he felt bad from drinking, or... or tired. Maybe Draco looked tired. Or maybe he’d been frowning or something. And he’d _asked_ why he was dressed that way. It wasn’t a value judgment, necessarily. 

He took some deep breaths, or tried to. The sound of them seemed strange—too loud. 

His face scrunched up in tears anyway. He allowed it. Allowed the tears to fall. He was okay, he was safe here. 

It’s okay to feel. 

And release. 

His whole body quivered with it. The dock shook. 

He gasped for breath, and the crying eased up. Deeper breaths—he was fine. He actually felt a bit better. A bit lighter. 

Draco wiped the wetness from his eyes, and blinked out at the now-familiar scenery. It was peaceful, silent. Just the sounds of the lapping water against the shore, the birds, and a car in the distance. Like a soothing balm over his wounded chest. 

He took another deep breath, and looked down at the book on his lap, sniffling sharply. Time to read then. 

Draco opened it up, and ended up lying on his stomach, stretched out, to read. But, he couldn’t concentrate on the words. He kept having to re-read paragraphs until he got fed up. He closed the book and peeked out over the edge of the dock. To his surprise, there were greenish-brown fish there, just swimming around, circling the dock. Some were tiny, some as big as his hand. 

He settled himself to watch the fish comfortably, with his chin resting on folded arms. Draco's hair fell down towards the water, hiding his face from view. 

The dock rocked under someone’s approaching feet. Draco moved to look behind himself, but stopped when he remembered he’d just sobbed like a child at the thought that Potter might find him ugly, and his face was likely a red, puffy mess. The footsteps got closer, and somebody lowered themselves to sit beside him. 

“What are you doing?” asked Potter. 

Draco was startled that it was Potter, for one thing. And for another, he was startled at the change of tone from their hotel room—it was friendlier now, almost gentle. He licked his lips and kept staring down. “Watching the fish.” Draco winced. His voice sounded sad to his own ears. 

Potter stretched out onto his stomach beside him and took a look. Draco could feel the heat radiating off Potter’s body. 

What was Potter doing here? Draco’s muscles tensed up. 

Potter extended his hand down towards the water’s surface. He let his fingertips just graze the water, and several fish took notice. Draco watched, with bated breath. One of the big ones, a hand-sized one, swam up to nibble on the finger. Potter giggled, and retracted his hand quickly. That sound did something to Draco’s chest. 

Then, Potter did it again. The fish were all swarming around his fingers. A little one tried to take a bite. Potter laughed again, and pulled his hand away. 

Draco didn’t know what to make of it. Just... his heart was racing. 

Without warning, Potter flopped over onto his back. It shook the whole dock. 

They stayed like that for a few tense moments—Draco looking down, Potter looking up. 

“I think...” Potter started. “I think I came across harsher than I’d intended back there.” 

Draco didn’t move. 

“You looked a bit tired, maybe a bit grumpy, that’s all I meant. And I like your clothes, they just aren’t what I’d expect you to wear,” Potter finished. 

Draco chanced a glance at Potter through strands of hair. The man was just looking straight up at the clouds. Potter _likes_ his clothes? He cleared his throat before saying, “And what would you expect me to wear?” 

Potter smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. “Probably something fancy.” 

“Something fancy,” Draco echoed, and turned back to the fish, some of them were mouthing at the water’s surface. He didn’t know what to make of that either. 

Potter shifted and his hair brushed up against the back of Draco’s hand. Draco involuntarily closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists—for a wild moment he imagined raking his fingers through those curls. 

“Have lunch with me. I’m starving,” Potter said suddenly. 

Draco opened his eyes. 

He tilted his head upwards, and the sun was in the middle of the sky. 

He can’t have lunch with Harry Potter. His face might still be red and blotchy from crying. “I’m not hungry.” 

“Okay, I can wait.” 

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t find anything to say. 

So they lay in silence, side by side. One face up, one face down. 

And a couple soft black curls still touched the back of Draco’s hand. 

Potter’s stomach rumbled. 

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay, let’s get lunch.” What was he _doing_? 

He pushed himself up onto his knees, book in hand, and chanced a glance at Potter. Potter met his eyes, and smiled a little. Merlin, help him. 

Draco tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear—a nervous gesture. Potter watched the movement. 

They both stood, and the dock rocked a little. Draco feared for a moment that his legs would give out—he felt a bit noodle-y. But, thankfully, he was able to make it to solid land, one step at a time, breathing in and out carefully, with Potter trailing behind him. 

They walked up to the building in silence, and Draco held the door open, and looked at Potter—waiting for him to walk through. 

But he didn’t. He was looking intently at Draco’s face. 

Draco felt a blush threaten to rise. 

“You’ve got stuff on your face,” Potter commented. 

Draco brought a hand to his face. 

“Right there,” said Potter, putting a cold fingertip to Draco’s cheek. 

Draco’s eyes widened. “Is that the finger you had in the _lake_?” he blurted. “Do you know how many _bacteria_ —” 

Potter rolled his eyes. “I’ll push you in the lake next time,” he quipped, with the edges of his mouth twitching. 

“If you _ever_ —” 

Potter smiled properly, with crinkling eyes. “Sounds like the old Draco Malfoy is back. It’s been a while.” Draco blinked back at him, frowning, as Potter smirked. Almost… teasingly. “Come on, let’s go to the bathroom to wash off all the bacteria.” 

Draco was struck speechless, and before he could react, Potter was grabbing Draco’s arm to drag him inside. His left forearm to be exact, causing Draco to tense up again. 

He led them to the public bathroom, before dropping Draco’s arm. Draco followed Potter inside, rubbing at his Dark Mark through his shirtsleeve. 

Potter didn’t notice Draco’s discomfort; he was already at the sinks, washing his hands. 

The last time they were in a bathroom alone together—his awful mind reminded him. He shook off the thought, and marched up to a sink, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was determined to get through this without a total meltdown, without embarrassing himself completely in front of Harry Potter. 

His own eyes looked bright and wide staring back at him. He did have tiny salty marks on his cheeks, from... from the tears. He scraped at them with a fingernail. Thankfully he wasn’t red or puffy, at least. 

Draco felt Potter’s eyes on him. “I’ll save us a table.” 

“Alright,” Draco said to his own reflection. 

As soon as the door banged shut, Draco set his book down and gripped the edge of the sink. He took a deep breath. What was he playing at—having lunch with Potter? 

He washed his hands, and his face a bit, before grabbing his book to go and... walk into the lion’s den, so to speak. 

Potter was sat at a two-person table, facing towards the hallway Draco was walking from, with two mugs carefully arranged on each end of the table. 

Draco slipped into the seat across from him, looking down at the mug there. 

“Tea with a dash of cream, right?” asked Potter. 

Draco blinked at the mug. This didn’t... make sense... “Yes. Thank you.” He looked up at Potter, who looked a little embarrassed—not quite meeting Draco’s eyes. “How did you...” 

He shrugged, and attempted a smile. “You always drink tea with meals, right?” 

“Er, right.” That was odd. Draco didn’t think people paid that much attention to his drinking habits. 

“Ah.” Potter cleared his throat. “So, what’s that you’re reading?” A change of subject, then. 

Draco’s eyes fell to his book on the table, which he’d forgotten all about. “A Clash of Kings. By George R. R. Martin.” He looked back up at Potter. “It’s about kings, wars, magic, dragons, and the like.” 

Potter gnawed on the edge of his lip. “It’s good?” 

Draco let a smile escape again. “Yeah. I like that it’s unpredictable.” 

“And it’s... is it Muggle?” 

“It is,” Draco answered, fidgeting with his hands on his lap. “I find it fascinating to read what Muggles can dream up about magic. It’s always so unique and inventive.” 

Potter blinked at him, and then nodded. 

Draco didn’t know what else to say, so he picked up his mug to take a sip. 

“So, you’re wearing Muggle clothes, you’re at a Muggle retreat, and you’re reading a Muggle novel,” said Potter. 

Draco’s kneejerk reaction was to narrow his eyes. “What are you getting at?” 

Potter looked defensive. His eyes were widened, just a bit. “You’ve changed?” 

A waitress approached them at that moment with menus. 

Potter ordered a ‘Big Breakfast’, Draco ordered a goat cheese salad. 

Draco folded his hands on the table. “I’m in this class as part of my probation, Potter,” he said quietly. 

“What I meant was: you don’t still believe...” 

Draco closed his eyes. Potter couldn’t even say it. So, Draco did, “The superiority of my birth? That Muggleborns should be kept out of Hogwarts? That Muggles are not people?” 

Potter didn’t answer, and images threatened Draco’s mind without warning—they knocked and banged against a wall in his head. Then, they broke through—at the worst possible time, because it was in front of Potter. 

Charity Burbage. Nagini. Voldemort... Screams. Sick laughter. Pain. 

Oh no. 

He could hear Voldemort’s laughter so clearly in his mind. Draco’s fingers clenched at the linen tablecloth, bunching it up in his fists. 

He was having trouble catching his breath, and his ears rang like church bells. 

_Try to breathe._

“Draco.” Potter’s voice cut through. 

A slightly-calloused, warm hand covered Draco’s clenched fists. 

He opened his eyes, and stared at the brown hand there. The bony fingers. The bitten fingernails. The scar that read ‘I must not tell lies’ in Potter’s own handwriting. 

Everything was reduced to one hand. 

The sounds disappeared. It was quiet. 

All that remained were heartbeats, and a hand. 

Potter’s hand, his mind helpfully pointed out. A warm and heavy weight over his. 

Draco took deep breaths. They came a bit shaky at first, but steadied in a few short moments. 

Fog cleared. 

Potter spoke slowly. Gently. “I get... well, Hermione calls them episodes, but I’m not sure that’s the right word. Anyway, I get them too. Where everything becomes... overwhelming.” He squeezed Draco’s clenched fists, just once. “It’s helpful to focus on what’s around you. Hermione calls it ‘grounding’. You try to focus on what you can hear, what you can smell, what you can touch, what you can see...” 

Draco nodded, still looking at Potter’s hand, that was... touching him. 

Focussing on that one thing. 

Sound was beginning to return to normal—it was just a room, with people quietly chatting over meals. 

Draco tested out his voice, “What you’re...” It sounded strange to Draco’s ears. He cleared his throat. “What you’re describing sounds like the 5-4-3-2-1 technique. Five things you can see, four things you can feel...” He hazarded a glance at Potter—who looked terribly open and... compassionate. 

Potter blinked back at him in surprise, and nodded. 

Draco continued, grateful for something intellectual he could talk about, because that was easy. Emotional stuff was hard. Speaking slow, Draco said, “There are a few methods of grounding. The chair method—where you focus your thoughts on the chair you’re sitting in... Feeling the places the chair makes contact with your body, or the material it's made of. Another way is you can hold something in your hand, and really focus on it. The weight of it...” He trailed off, staring at the hand. 

“How do you...” Potter started. 

Potter wasn’t very good at finishing his sentences, Draco thought. But he understood the meaning. “Part of my probation is seeing a Mind Healer once a week.” 

“Oh.” 

Draco flicked his gaze up to Potter, and the man looked thoughtful, but his eyes were bright. Too bright. 

Their food arrived, and Potter pulled away. Draco let go of his hold on the tablecloth. He’d wrinkled it. He did a quick swipe of his hand in an attempt to smooth it, before the waitress set his plate there. 

He could still feel the heat from Potter’s skin. 

Draco didn’t have much of an appetite, but he tried. He wished Potter hadn’t had to see him like that, to see him lose control of his emotions. He’d spent years trying to show Potter his worth, to prove that Potter had made a mistake rejecting his friendship. He’d thought himself so _clever_ , so _strong_ … and see where that got him. 

Draco sighed and cast a glance across the table. Potter was nearly inhaling his food. 

Putting his fork down after just a few bites, Draco said, “It was easy to believe what my father had raised me to believe.” 

“You don’t have to—” Potter began. He’d stopped eating abruptly, with eyes focused on Draco. 

“I think I do,” Draco said, closing his eyes briefly. “It was easy because it meant I was special—part of a superior group. It appealed to my sense of pride. He told me I was better than Muggles, Muggleborns and Halfbloods—simply for having been born a Malfoy—and I accepted it.” 

Potter’s mouth was set in a firm line, and he’d set his fork down. 

“But that was all well and good for me _in theory_ , until I saw first-hand how those beliefs affected real people.” He dipped his head for a moment and took a breath. “When I saw... when I watched people tortured and killed simply for the circumstances of their birth. I—” He sucked in another breath. “I realised too late how wrong I’d been. How sick and depraved those ideas are...” 

Potter stared back at him. 

“I hated it. I couldn’t stand seeing people hurt and killed. And I hated feeling powerless to do anything about it,” Draco admitted. Fuck, why was he admitting it? 

Because he wanted Potter to _understand_ , Draco realised. 

And... selfishly... Draco wondered if Potter might forgive him. If he explained himself. 

“You wouldn’t’ve,” Draco added, adjusting his napkin so that it lined up parallel with the edge of the table. “You would’ve been able to do something.” 

Potter exhaled hard, like it pained him. “Or, I would’ve been killed. And what good would that’ve been?” 

Draco pinched his mouth closed, staring over at Potter. 

“You survived. Please don’t feel guilty for surviving.” 

Draco licked his lips. He had no response for that. He could try to argue, but the fact was: he didn’t know. He didn’t know if Potter was right, or wrong. “Well... I want to... I want to make up for it. For everything. Everything done and... not done. To somehow do something good in the world. I don’t know what, but maybe after I graduate I’ll figure out how to... how to do something good.” Draco's words felt wholly insufficient.

A soft smile formed on Potter’s lips. “That sounds... good.” He laughed a little breathily at his repetition of the word. 

Draco smiled back weakly, and looked down at his salad. He picked his fork up and started eating again. 

“Part of growing up is un-learning what we’ve been taught, isn’t it?” Potter said thoughtfully. 

Draco’s gaze snapped to him. 

“We have to un-learn what doesn’t work for us... and discover what does work.” Potter smiled, somewhat bashfully, and looked down at his nearly-cleared plate. “You had to un-learn some things. And... so did I.” 

“You did?” Draco asked breathily. 

“Well, yeah,” Potter said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “It was a bit different to what you went through, but I had to adjust my worldview all the same.” Potter smiled, just a bit. “The Muggles who raised me—my aunt and uncle—they tried to make me believe I was a freak, that I was worthless and a burden—” 

“ _Potter_ ,” Draco exhaled, staring at the man in disbelief. 

Potter nodded, lifting a shoulder in another half-hearted shrug. “—and I had to un-learn all that. I met Hagrid, I met Hermione and Ron, and they treated me like I was worth something.” 

“ _Potter_ …" What the fuck? 

“It’s alright, it was a long time ago.” 

“What did they do to you?” Draco demanded, clenching his fists on his lap. 

Potter shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Not much, really. Others have had it a lot worse.” 

“Potter...” 

Potter sighed. “I slept in a cupboard, got locked in it sometimes for punishments.” He shrugged. “I cooked meals for them. I didn’t get any presents at birthdays and Christmas. That sort of stuff.” He laughed a bit to himself. “It seems stupid to complain about, I know. Not getting a proper bed or presents. It’s not important, really.” 

“A fucking _what_?” Other patrons were definitely staring, a waiter cast Draco an annoyed look. He didn’t give a shit. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You slept in _what_?” Merlin—he could cry, he could… punch something. 

“A cupboard?” 

“Salazar fucking Slytherin,” Draco muttered, covering his face with his hands. 

“Um... I don’t understand why _you’re_ upset.” 

“Fuck,” Draco mumbled. How had he not known? How did the whole bloody wizarding world not know? Little Harry Potter was kept in a cupboard? He pictured the scrawny little eleven-year-old he remembered, dressed in too-big clothes and those hideous taped-up glasses. That tiny boy with big eyes and knobby knees—had been abused. He’d had no idea... 

“Malfoy...” 

Anger settled high and hot in his chest, with nowhere to go. He felt sick with it. Powerless. 

“Malfoy...” 

“Yeah,” Draco answered, from behind his hands. 

“I shouldn’t have told you that, you’re obviously...” 

Draco sucked in a breath through his mouth. “Obviously what?” _Fucked up_? 

Pausing, Potter seemed to be thinking about how to say whatever he was trying to say. 

Draco rubbed his face, then dropped his hands to his lap, and looked at Potter. The man had a furrowed brow and was tilting his head to the side, just a little, like Draco was some kind of puzzle he was trying to figure out. 

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but, you do seem... sensitive.” Potter leaned back in his chair to worry his bottom lip with his teeth, watching Draco. 

“Sensitive,” Draco echoed, frowning. That seemed an understatement. 

“I don’t mean it like it’s a bad thing—just, I didn’t mean to upset you, and I wasn’t thinking... I mean, I hadn’t exactly thought you’d _care_. It’s... huh.” Potter looked thoughtful. “Do you really actually care?” 

Draco blinked at him, not exactly knowing how to answer that. (‘Yes, Potter, the idea of anyone hurting you makes me feel absolutely murderous’? ‘Yes, Potter, in fact I want nothing more than for you to be happy and safe for the rest of your life’? ‘Yes, Potter, did you know that I think you’re perfect and I want to know what it’s like to kiss you’?—As if he’d ever have the nerve to say anything remotely close to the full scope of his own feelings). Instead, he tried to summon his rational side. Best to go the recap route. “You were an abused child. I’m not a complete _monster_ —” 

“I didn’t mean to imply—” 

“—As if I’d think—” 

“—That you...” 

“— _Anyone_ deserves that, least of all—” 

“—MALFOY! It’s just _nice_ , okay?” 

Draco pinched his mouth shut and stared at Potter, who stared back at him with eyes flashing. 

“Okay,” Draco finally relented, feeling a bit deflated. 

“And I don’t consider myself as having been abused.” 

Draco’s eyes narrowed. He could argue, but Potter might shout again. Evidently, they can’t seem to carry a normal conversation. Of course they can’t. 

He picked up his fork and started stabbing the greens, maybe more violently than necessary. Perhaps pretending the leaves were Potter’s abusive family would make him feel better. When his fork was full of lettuce, he shoved it all in his mouth and chewed angrily. 

The world sure was fucked up. Sweet little Harry Potter had been kept in a cupboard? Who the fuck does that? If he’d known—oh who was he trying to kid. He’d probably have been exactly the same, made all the same choices. 

Potter sighed. “Do you want to swim in the pool after this?” 

Draco blinked. The pool? A swimming pool? It took him a moment to remember those children in the lift when they’d first arrived. Right. Presumably there was a swimming pool in the basement. “No,” he barked out, harsher than he’d meant to. He was upset. And he felt guilty. Because he’d done nothing to make Potter’s life any easier back then. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

“Just ‘no’? We could at least take a look, maybe there’s a hot tub or a sauna or something.” 

“No.” Draco didn’t look up from his salad, half-eaten now. Swimming? As if he’d let _anyone_ , least of all Potter, see him in a bathing suit. Not that he’d brought one, anyhow. “I don’t have a suit.” 

“There’s a giftshop.” 

Draco shook his head. “Not interested.” 

“Fine. Okay. Maybe I’ll check it out myself, then.” 

“Go right ahead.” 

They fell into an uneasy silence. But Draco was not going to apologise, or _explain_ , not wanting to parade his mangled body around. 

And he was still upset about Potter’s childhood. A cupboard? 

Seriously… a _cupboard_? 

Potter picked his fork back up, and resumed shovelling his huge breakfast into his mouth. How could he eat after that? Well… it’d been _his_ past, Draco supposed. He’d had years to come to terms with it. Draco was going to have to take some time to process it though. 

He looked down at his plate, at the few leaves of lettuce left, and picked up his fork. The mood of their lunch had changed after all that. Of course Potter’s attempts at a friendly lunch were unsuccessful. This was _them_ , after all. Potter and Malfoy. They weren’t meant to get along. 

Draco sighed deep, and stabbed a few pieces of lettuce, and put them into his mouth. They tasted flavourless now, though it was likely no fault of the cook. 

Potter finished first, and instead of standing up and leaving—like he should—he stayed seated to wait for Draco. He knew Potter was likely trying to be polite… but it felt much-too-tense between them for that. 

Draco glanced up, to find Potter watching him with a small frown. He suppressed an eyeroll. “You can go, you know.” 

Potter exhaled a long breath. “Do you want me to?” 

Shrugging, he answered, “You’re done, aren’t you?” 

Potter stared back at him for a beat. “Fine.” He pushed his chair back with a screech, and stood. “See you later.” He didn’t walk off—Potter waited for a response. 

“Yeah.” Because, what else did Potter expect him to say? 

Potter’s mouth twisted into a frown, and he walked off. Draco felt himself deflate, his posture sink. Merlin, that’d been awkward. 

He shovelled the rest of the salad into his mouth, tasting none of it, and then stood up to go. (But where was he going?) Draco didn’t want to return to the room—where Potter could be, changing into his bathing suit. So, Draco went back outside. He didn’t even spare the dock a glance, and kept walking. 

Before he knew it, he realised he was back on the hiking trail. All the way over to the wooden bench between the two trees. 

He settled onto it, like he had the day before. This time letting his legs dangle over the other side, over the steep edge of the hill. 

The air was helping to clear his muddled head. 

In another life, in another body, he’d relish the opportunity to do something as simple as swim with Harry Potter. To sit in a hot tub together. And to sit in a hot sauna together, with steam wrapping around them like a blanket, the strong scent of warm cedar... and, fuck, aren’t people nude in those sometimes? 

It didn’t bear thinking about. Not really. 

Maybe one day he’d allow himself to fantasize about it. 

It probably didn’t bear thinking about Potter being kept in a cupboard instead of a bedroom, either. But Draco couldn’t get that visual out of his mind. 

What kind of person could put a child in a cupboard? And lock them in? 

No wonder he’d been so small and scrawny back then. 

And what would that do to a child… psychologically? How does a child still grow up to be kind, brave, and big-hearted? 

Perhaps it was a nature versus nurture situation. In Potter’s case, his nature must’ve won out. All those good genes inherited from his parents. 

A bird called in the distance, and Draco slumped over to lean his side against one of the tree trunks. A soft breeze passed through, rustling leaves above him. 

It was quite remarkable, really. That Potter had turned out so well. Despite his upbringing. And… despite Voldemort. 

And despite losing so many people in the war. People Potter had loved. Like Professor Lupin and his wife. Dumbledore. One of the Weasley twins. And Draco’s own relative—Sirius Black. 

How had Potter managed to come out the other end a functional human being? 

Draco leaned his cheek against the tree, and stared off, unseeing, into the treeline beyond. 

Potter deserved so much better than his past. And Draco hoped Potter was happier now, now that the war was over and he’d never have to go back to his aunt and uncle’s ever again. 

He’d graduate Hogwarts. He’d likely be recruited into Auror training straight away. And he’d become the world’s best Auror, no doubt. He’d keep on saving lives, righting wrongs, and capturing bad people. People like Draco and his family had been. 

Potter would marry a lovely woman, of course. He’d come home to her every day, planting a kiss on her forehead before tousling the black curly hair of his son. He’d pick up his daughter and twirl her around the room as she giggled. Something altogether normal and wholesome like that anyway. 

Draco smiled to himself. Potter deserved a happy life. An infinitely happier one than he’d started out with. 

The sound of crunching leaves underfoot brought Draco out of his thoughts. He twisted around to find Potter approaching. And gone was the frown he’d last seen on the man’s face. Instead, Potter looked relaxed—his expression open and eyes bright. Also, his hair was very wet, which was probably unwise to have in these colder temperatures. 

“Hi,” said Potter. First. 

“Hello.” 

“Can I sit?” 

_Why_ , though? At least, that was what Draco wanted to ask. He didn’t understand Potter’s sudden interest in keeping him company. “Yeah, alright,” he said, instead. 

Potter climbed over the bench, so that he faced the same way Draco did—overlooking the steep hill and thick brush below. With trees stretching out as far as the eye could see. They weren’t touching but it certainly felt close. Draco could feel the heat radiating off the man—was he just always warm, was that it? And Draco could hear Potter’s breaths, which, if you ask him, was a rather intimate thing to hear. 

“Swimming was nice.” 

“Great.” He hazarded a glance at Potter, who was just staring straight ahead, neutral as can be. 

“You should come with me next time, it’s relaxing.” 

Draco pressed his lips firmly together, and turned his head back forward. “No, thanks.” 

Potter exhaled slow. And Draco could see him rubbing his palms against his jeans out the corner of his eye. 

They fell into a silence again. It was easy to do. Didn’t Potter see that he should stop trying to spark a conversation? (Or whatever the hell he was attempting.) His efforts were futile. Pointless. The two of them were too different. They _clashed_. 

Draco pressed his eyes closed tight. Granted—sure—he could put in a little more effort. “How’d you find me?” 

Potter was silent for a beat, and Draco wondered if he’d even heard him. Or, perhaps, if Potter was upset by the question, though he couldn’t fathom why he would— 

“I saw you here earlier,” Potter said, rather neutrally, as he interrupted Draco’s wild thoughts. 

“Ah.” Well, that’d been a failed attempt at conversation. Not that Draco’s question had been anything special— 

“What were you thinking about? Sitting here, I mean.” 

_You_ , Draco’s mind immediately supplied. 

Merlin. Draco could think about Potter all day, if he’d let himself. 

But he certainly wasn’t going to tell Potter that. 

His heartrate picked up speed, as he tried to recall anything he’d ever thought about, that _wasn’t_ about Harry James Potter. 

Ah. The cabin. 

“I’ve been thinking about living alone in a one-room cabin in a forest somewhere, a forest like this,” Draco started, tentatively, as he looked out into the distance—imagining a small cabin out there, with smoke rising from a chimney. “I’d forage for food. I’d sit by a stream, contemplating nature.” He laughed a little to himself. It was embarrassing to admit out loud, to Harry Potter, of all people. Still better than admitting he was thinking about how wonderful and deserving of good things Potter was.

“You can’t.” 

“Beg pardon?” Draco asked, a bit annoyed at his fantasy being shut down so quickly. He turned to Potter then, and caught the stern expression on the man’s face, his unfocussed eyes looking outwards, unseeing. 

“Sure, maybe it seems romantic or saintly or something... the idea of being the wise hermit out in the woods, the mysterious wizard who has turned his back on society...” 

Yes. That did seem romantic to Draco. And what’s the problem with that? He sat up straighter, preparing to become defensive. 

“But that’s not real—that's a painting or a story. In this world, people need people. People need to live their lives, even if that means dealing with the harder stuff, because that’s real.” 

Draco closed his eyes. He didn’t want... 

“Hiding away is selfish, cowardly, and it’s wasteful. You have a _life_ , you’re eighteen years old for fuck’s sake.” 

Draco bit back a sigh. _Cowardly_ —why did that word have to follow him, wherever he went? And it hurt so much more coming from Potter’s mouth. 

“You still have things to offer to world, you’re a fucking genius with everything at school—if you just focus on one thing you’re interested in—who even knows what you can accomplish. And that’s _exciting_ , you know? You could cure the uncurable, or create better ways of doing things. I don’t know, there’s loads of possibilities.” 

Draco was momentarily struck dumb. 

That was not the direction he thought Potter would take when he'd started the lecture. 

Draco’s a genius? 

Did Potter really think so? 

And did Potter really truly believe he could accomplish something out of his life? That it was even possible for him to succeed at something? 

Merlin. 

_Harry—_

Draco could cry. It stung behind his eyes. It... hurt. 

“Sorry,” Potter continued, rubbing his palms against his jeans again. “I don’t know how serious you were about that—It’s just... talk like that worries me.” 

“Worries you?” Draco echoed, barely above a whisper. 

Potter exhaled. Slow. “Yeah. I don’t want to find out you’ve disappeared after school. I don’t want to wonder if you’re alive, or... or not.” 

He blinked, rapidly. Potter had meant... ‘worried’ about him, specifically? 

Why on earth would Potter... 

Potter’s hands turned into fists on his lap. “I’ve noticed... you know? I’ve noticed you’re different.” He took in a slow breath. “You keep to yourself. You just go to classes and meals. And I see your friends... like Pansy, she looks at you in the Great Hall, when you're not noticing. She looks at you like she might be worried. It’s sort of hard to tell with her... but, yeah. She seems worried about you.” Potter unclenched his fists, rubbing his hands against his jeans again. “You’re quieter. You look like you’re alone, even if you’re with people. And that... that worries me too.” 

Draco didn’t know what to say. He looked out at the treeline. The moment felt charged, felt strange. He could hear his own heartbeat, he could hear the wind rustling in the trees above his head. 

Potter seemed genuinely concerned. And... that felt odd. It was strange to be noticed. _Pansy_ noticed, yes. And she nagged at him, that was how she showed she cared. 

But Potter... Potter’s concern felt different. He could cry. Or he could hide. 

It felt like exposure. 

Draco wasn’t supposed to be noticed. And not by Potter. Potter wasn’t supposed to be able to read him so well. They weren’t friends. 

Potter _shouldn’t_ care. 

But... he did? 

Perhaps it was a Gryffindor trait—direct kindness to the undeserving. They were probably going around _supporting_ one another constantly. 

Slytherins had to be so tiresomely subtle, cunning, secretive in their friendships, their affections. See: Pansy’s scheme. Now, if she’d been a Gryffindor, Draco probably could’ve had a nice, mature heart-to-heart chat with her about his feelings, instead of having him thrust into Potter’s bedroom against his will. 

This was... very different. 

He almost wanted to ask why Potter would care if he were alive or not. 

Instead, he decided he’d better reassure Potter. “I... I won’t disappear.” He winced at his response. It didn’t seem enough. “Thank you,” he added quietly. 

They glanced at each other at the same time. Potter’s eyes shined bright and he wore a small smile on his face, evidently pleased with that answer. Draco looked away quickly. 

Potter was altogether a very confusing person. 

“They’ve probably all returned from the farm by now. Do you... want to go back?” Potter asked. 

“No,” Draco answered automatically. He needed to think more. He had to... process all this. Draco hazarded a glance at Potter, who nodded—as a muscle clenched in his jaw. 

“Alright,” Potter said, frowning slightly. “I guess I’ll... see you later, then.” 

“Yeah. See you later.” 

Potter climbed out from the bench, and walked off. Draco twisted around in his seat to watch his back retreat—a bit baffled and marvelled by the man, and the nice things he’d said. Potter had his hands stuffed in his pockets, and looked so relaxed and at ease with himself as he shuffled off. 

Before he was about to disappear around a bend in the path, Potter turned to look back over his shoulder, for some reason. 

Draco hurriedly whipped his head back around to face forwards. He didn’t want Potter to catch him staring. 

Merlin. Maybe Pansy’s scheme had been a gift, in a sense. He and Potter would’ve never spoken like this otherwise. It’d been... well, _nice_ to learn more about Potter, even if he learned some upsetting things. It was like... well, like Potter trusted him, at least to a degree. And that, in itself, felt like a privilege. And to speak to each other like they were just two people, instead of rivals who’d been at each other’s throats for years, was just... strange and new and kind of wonderful. 

Draco leaned against the tree trunk and exhaled slowly. And began to go over the day's events from the start. He wanted to think.

~~

As the sun began to set, Draco realised he’d better go back. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in the forest after dark without a wand. So he picked himself up, and hurried back to the resort.

He hadn't gotten any closer to figuring things out. (Namely: the enigma that is Harry Potter.) But he did feel a great deal calmer than he had at lunchtime. 

Pansy bombarded him in the lobby, thrusting a large pumpkin into his arms with a grin. 

“Er... why?” he asked, looking down at the orange monstrosity. It was heavy. 

“A gift,” she said cheekily, her dimples were so prominent when she smiled like that. “From the farm.” 

“Ah. Great. Thanks so much,” he said drily. 

He had to bring his pumpkin into the dining area, and it got its own seat. 

And then after dinner, he had to lug the thing back to their room. Potter was there already; Draco had come at the exact moment that Potter was pushing his arm into the sleeve of a dark green jumper. Potter adjusted the jumper’s cuff and eyed Draco. 

“Why do you have a pumpkin?” 

Draco moved to place the thing down beside the telly, and shrugged. “Pansy.” 

“Ah.” 

“Do you want it?” 

Potter let out a surprised breathy laugh. “No. Thanks, though.” 

Draco ducked his head down, smiling a little to himself, and moved to sit on his bed. He could read some more, he supposed. Or, maybe... maybe Potter could put on the telly and they could watch something together. 

“Well... I’m going to...” Potter swiped a hand through his hair. “I’m off to Seamus and Dean’s room,” he said. 

“Alright,” Draco answered. Another night on his own, then. It wasn’t a surprise, really. 

“Do you want to... come along?” Potter asked hesitantly. 

Draco looked at him, and Potter really looked like it’d be okay if Draco did go with him. But, no one wanted Draco there. He knew it, and Potter knew it too. This... this invitation was out of pity. 

“No thank you.” 

“Are you sure? It’ll be pretty relaxed. Just some drinks and... music. That sort of thing.” 

Draco blinked at the man; he wasn’t sure why Potter was explaining what the party would entail. It wouldn’t change anything—he’s still Draco bloody Malfoy. “No thank you.” 

“Ah, alright. Good night, then. Uh, and come by if you change your mind. Their room is 303.” 

“Night.” 

Potter sauntered off, leaving the room in silence once more. Draco sat still for a while. That had been nice of Potter. It was nice to be invited. The idea of stepping into that room, though, and seeing everyone’s face fall or twist into anger, hearing everyone’s conversations immediately stop—no thank you. 

Draco sighed and rubbed his eyes. Then, he found himself eyeing the telly. He’d never used one before, and wasn’t sure if he could operate it properly, but it could be interesting to try. 

Draco removed his sodding jeans right then and there, out in the open. It’s not like Potter would be coming back to walk in on him. He changed into clean boxer briefs, and considered changing into pyjamas. But... he was alone, and this time he knew Potter wasn’t coming back. He didn’t need to wear bedclothes befitting a Malfoy like at home, or need to cover up like in his dorm. So, he put on a large soft t-shirt instead, something Pansy picked out, of course. It was heather grey and had a black tree design on the centre of the chest. 

He plopped down onto the end of the bed, his bare legs outstretched and not touching the floor. This was... nice. 

Next task: figure out how to turn on the telly. He reached back to grab the controller-thing from the bedside table, and studied it carefully. 

There was no ‘on’. There was a big red ‘power’ button, which sounded rather alarming. He didn’t want to blast the thing with extra power. What if it exploded? There were number buttons, and things for volume and channel. Whatever that meant. Could one increase the volume of a telly, like make it bigger or smaller? That seemed far too much like magic. He also knew what a channel was, but didn’t know how a body of water related to the telly either. 

In the end, he just smashed the thing against the bed. Miraculously, it turned on. He kept smashing, and somehow found himself watching a blue screen and a castle appear. 

He reached back to turn off the lamp on the nightstand, plunging the room into darkness. The only light came from the television.

And then, black ink moving on parchment filled the screen. It was so familiar to Draco that it felt eerie. Muggles didn’t live in castles or use quills, right? 

Letters spelling out ‘MULAN’ appeared atop a red dragon design. Muggles sure seemed to like dragons a lot for people who believed they didn’t exist. 

Then the image changed to moving drawings, showing a winding wall structure and an Asian bloke. Draco grabbed the blanket off his bed and wrapped himself with it, not taking his eyes off the screen. He jumped and made an embarrassing noise when a falcon came out of nowhere and bopped the man on the head. 

He gasped when dark figures were able to climb the wall. 

Draco was entranced—he wanted to be closer to the telly, to really feel a part of it. So he pulled a pillow off the bed and placed it on the floor, in order to lean against the foot of his bed with legs outstretched. The light of the telly was all he could see. 

“One man may be the difference between victory and defeat,” said the old bloke with the long beard in the film. 

“Wow,” Draco said out loud. His thoughts flitted to Potter for a moment. Potter had been that ‘one man’. Something twisted in his chest, an ache. 

But the ache was quickly forgotten, because he was distracted by the singing and makeovers—he thought he might like this movie already. Then Mulan met the matchmaker and botched it all up. “You will never bring your family honour.” That... felt familiar. 

Mulan started singing the saddest song Draco had ever heard. 

“When will my reflection show who I am inside?” 

Draco’s heart broke for her. His own reflection showed scars and marks of evil—a history of pain and bad choices written on his 18-year-old skin. Was that who he was inside? He hoped... he rather hoped _not_ , he surprised himself to note. 

And he also knew what it was like, now, being a disappointment to his family—being a gay son, being the last of the Malfoy line, and a social pariah to boot. He was unable to live up to his family legacy, all those generations of Pureblood prosperity died with him. 

He started to cry a little. Just a bit. Feeling sorry for Mulan. And, feeling sorry for himself, again. It’s not that he wanted to be a perfect Malfoy heir... but it still hurt when he thought about not being ‘enough’. 

The door opened, bringing in a stream of light from the hotel hallway. 

Draco made a surprised choking sound and hastily wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“Malfoy?” Potter closed the door behind himself, and stepped a little further into the room. 

“You’re back,” Draco managed to croak out. 

Potter eyed him on the floor, wrapped up in his blanket, with bare pale legs outstretched. Draco brought his legs up close to his chest in defence. 

The only sound was galloping horses on the screen, and Draco and Harry Potter were staring at each other. 

“Yeah, well... I just, wasn’t really in the mood for a party, as it turns out,” Potter said. “Uh... Were you crying?” 

Draco took a sharp breath. Potter shouldn’t be able to tell that, it’s a dim room, and they were still a couple metres apart. Fine, whatever, he’d come clean. He’s not ashamed to care about a girl who has let her whole family down and may never have true love (just like him). “Yes.” He waved a hand towards the telly. “Mulan.” 

“Mulan,” Potter repeated, shifting his gaze to the screen. 

Draco looked back at the film, and felt Potter watching him again. 

“It’s not really good for your eyes, you know... watching T.V. in the dark, so close to it like that,” Potter rambled. 

Draco glanced at Potter again, who was still standing awkwardly near the washroom. 

“Is that why you have glasses?” 

A laugh escaped Potter. “No.” 

Draco turned his face abruptly, back to watch the film. 

Mulan’s father was being enlisted into war. He mustn’t... “Oh no,” he whispered. 

Potter finally stopped his lingering, and moved to step past Draco, before making shuffling sounds from his corner of the room. Draco chose to ignore Potter’s potential distractions. 

Mulan watched her father test out his sword, only to fall down. This was bad. 

“Can I—” Potter began, before clearing his throat. Without finishing his sentence, he plopped himself down beside Draco on his own pillow, with a blanket wrapped around his body, and bare legs. “Uh, what did I miss?” 

Draco’s mind glitched a little—he was trying not to look at Potter’s well-muscled brown legs. He licked his lips and stared at the screen. The family was having tea together now. “Just Mulan is a disappointment to her whole family, and she may never find love, and her father’s been called off to war.” 

“Hmm,” was Potter’s only response. 

“I will die doing what’s right,” said Mulan’s father. 

Draco gasped. He really envied people who could that. Mulan’s father was a good man. Just like another self-sacrificing (handsome) prat he knew... 

Then Mulan became determined all of a sudden, and the music changed and Draco just watched it all with wide eyes. 

“Have you watched a film before?” Potter asked suddenly. 

He jumped, and dared to look at Potter. “No. I haven’t,” he admitted. Pureblood wizards weren’t brought up with them, and perhaps that was unfortunate—since this was turning out to be quite an interesting experience. 

Potter looked... amused. His eyes crinkled and the edge of his mouth curled upwards. He almost looked... fond. But that wasn’t possible because, well, their history. 

Draco snapped his attention back to the telly. 

They sat together in companionable silence for a while watching. It was comfortable. It was... nice. 

“Oh,” Draco breathed, when Li Shang appeared on screen. 

Potter made a funny sound. 

“What?” Draco demanded. 

“You think he’s fit!” Potter accused. 

Draco’s face heated up, and he didn’t know how to answer that. “Shut up, I can’t hear the film.” 

“ _Mmhmm_.” 

Draco bristled. “Besides, he’s a drawing.” 

“Mmhmm.” 

“Oh no,” whispered Draco, ignoring Potter and his insinuations. Mulan was already making a fool of herself in front of Li Shang. 

Training had begun, and suddenly Li Shang took off his shirt. Draco had to clamp his mouth shut. He didn’t want to give Potter any more ammunition. 

A new song number started about girls who are worth fighting for. Draco presumed Potter knew a thing about that. 

“Paler than the moon,” Potter repeated neutrally, referencing what the characters wanted in a girl. “Just like you.” 

Draco stiffened, and declined to comment. 

Thankfully things got real sad real fast to distract Draco from Potter (and his legs). 

“Fuck,” Draco breathed, when arrows started raining down. It was all looking pretty hopeless for Mulan. 

Just as the action really got going, Potter fell asleep. His breath slowed down and softened, and his body leaned closer and closer towards Draco. Draco spotted the inching out of the corner of his eye, warily. His heartrate sped up. Before long, Potter was leaning right on him. His head rolled, and settled on Draco’s shoulder. He could feel Potter’s soft curls against his jaw. Potter let out a tiny satisfied sound, it sounded nice. Potter shifted, and his leg ended up pressed snugly against Draco’s. 

Draco had to will himself to relax. He watched the movie, but couldn’t help feeling... No, it didn’t matter what he felt. 

Potter exhaled softly on Draco’s neck, giving him goose bumps. 

Eventually, the loud song that played after the story was finished startled Potter awake. 

He popped up off Draco’s shoulder and blinked at him sleepily. “Oh. I feel asleep.” 

“Yes you did,” Draco affirmed. 

In a tiny sleepy voice, Potter said, “You’re comfortable.” And yawned. 

Draco opened his mouth, and closed it again. Opened it, closed it. Potter stretched his arms and legs—straight out. 

“Maybe you should... get in bed,” Draco finally managed to say. 

“Yeah,” Potter agreed, climbing to his feet and launching himself into his bed, burrowing under the covers. Then, as an afterthought, he pulled off his glasses and tossed them onto the bedside table. Then he nuzzled himself deeper into the bed. 

Draco followed suit, climbing into his own bed, and pulling the covers up under his chin. 

“Night, Draco,” Potter mumbled into his pillow. 

_Oh Merlin_. “Good night.” Draco had a hard time pulling his eyes away from Potter’s sleeping self. 

It took a long time to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far! ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

Draco woke up with images of bare knees and sleepy smiles fresh in his mind. He remembered soft breath on his neck and curls on his jaw, and the echoes of _You’re comfortable_ and _Night, Draco_. 

He looked over at the other bed, and Potter was still sleeping soundly turned towards him, with his face relaxed, and breath coming out in soft puffs. 

Salazar, he was pretty. 

The thick, black eyelashes that cast feathery shadows on his skin, the curve of his mouth... 

Draco realised with a start that he had a morning erection. Shit. If Potter were to open his eyes right now, he’d see the obvious tenting going on around Draco’s middle. 

He slipped out of bed as silently as he could, with a fist over his crotch, and beelined for his dresser to pull out random trousers, pants, and a shirt. Then he hurried to the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

He fiddled with the knobs of the shower until it was the right temperature, then he shucked his clothes and climbed in. The water poured over him from head to toe, and he swiped a hand over his face, to flip his hair out of his eyes. 

It was surprising how turned on he was. He rarely ever got hard these days. His Mind Healer had brought it up, to his dismay and utter embarrassment. But in the end, she’d taught him it was normal to have a reduced libido after all he’d been through, particularly when a person is depressed, and that it would return in time. 

He trailed a hand down his flat stomach, through the short blond hairs, and onto his aching cock, palming its length. He let out a little sound of pleasure, he allowed himself that. 

Facing the direction of the wall that Potter was just metres behind, he leaned a hand on the slippery tile for support and began stroking, savouring the feeling of his wet hand on himself. Savouring in the knowledge that Potter was there, on the other side of that wall. He gave a squeeze to the head. 

Potter. _Harry_. 

He thought about last night, bringing the image of Harry beside him on the floor into vivid colour in his mind. Draco thought about Harry’s bare legs, muscled and splayed out. His thighs, his knees, his shins, his feet. The fine black hairs on his brown skin. He thought about placing his own hand on Harry’s thigh. Just putting it there, resting it—feeling Harry’s warm skin underneath it, and the muscle and bone underneath _that_. 

He remembered Harry asleep beside him, with his soft curls against Draco’s jaw. He imagined Harry tilting his head, _just so_ , and kissing Draco’s neck. Just lightly there, featherlight. And breathing out through his mouth, just hot breath against Draco’s neck. 

Harry’s breath. And the lightest of touches with those lips. 

Draco came in bursts against the wall, biting back a cry. 

Oh. That was nice. 

He leisurely soaped himself, and the wall, off. He took time to wash his hair thoroughly, massaging his scalp, and breathing in the citrusy scent of the shampoo. 

When he was finished, he wrapped a thick, fluffy white towel around his waist and felt exceptionally relaxed. 

He just needed to brush his teeth and to dry his hair. There was one of those... hair dryer things. It was purple and plastic and a bit odd, attached to the wall near the sink. He unhinged it to examine it. 

There came a banging on the door, Draco jumped. 

“Malfoy, I have to piss!”

“I’m not finished yet!” Draco called through the door. 

“Come on, Malfoy!” 

“I’m busy!” He examined the thing. It really didn’t look easy. But... he can’t just have wet hair. It could dry funny. 

“It’s an emergency!” 

“Just a moment, Potter.” He frowned. 

“I’m coming in!” 

“Wha—” Did he forget to lock it? 

Potter opened the door and barrelled through to the toilet. Before Draco could blink, Potter had already lifted the lid and pulled his... well, cock out and started... urinating. Fast and very, very loudly. 

Draco yelped. He could admit, it wasn’t exactly the most dignified response to what was taking place. He didn’t look at Potter, didn’t look at his... But he knew it was there, and that was enough. 

Potter sighed with relief as he voided himself. Draco was frozen, he stared at his own reflection in the mirror and willed himself not to blush, and not to look. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Potter shake himself, and tuck himself back in. Draco glared at his own face in the mirror, daring the reflection to stay calm. 

“Sorry, I couldn’t wait even a moment longer.” Potter turned on the tap next to him and washed his hands. “What are you doing?” 

Draco blinked and pivoted so that he faced Potter now, and his back was to the wall. “Nothing,” he answered quickly. He hadn't ogled. 

Potter laughed, moving to dry his hands on a towel. “You’re just holding the hair dryer, then?” 

He looked down at his own hand holding the contraption. He’d forgotten... “I don’t know how...” he trailed off. 

Potter snatched it out of his hand, his fingers grazing Draco’s in the process. “I reckon you just press the on button.” He pressed a black button near the base of the thing, and it whirled to life, spewing hot air. 

Potter pointed it at Draco’s head, surprising him. He caught Potter’s face in the mirror, he looked... mischievous. Not... not unkind. 

“Give that to me,” Draco said, turning toward the man, and getting hot air in the face as a result. “Ppah!” 

Potter just grinned at him, biting his lip cheekily. Goddammit, Draco wasn’t going to survive this. 

“Give it!” he demanded again, reaching for the blasted thing. 

Potter dodged the movement and blasted Draco’s head again, grinning. 

Draco glared, and put a hand on his hip. 

Potter laughed at the pose, until his face fell. He was staring at Draco’s torso. _Oh_. Shit. Potter’s expression twisted into something horrified. 

He clicked the hair dryer off, plunging the room in silence.

“Potter—” 

“I scarred you.” 

“It’s... It’s fine.” Draco shot him a pleading look, hoping he’d just drop it. 

“It’s not fine,” Potter whispered. Staring at Draco’s body. 

Draco folded his arms over his chest, although it was a futile gesture since Potter had already had an eyeful. He sighed, they were really going to have to actually _talk_ , then. “You saved my life, plenty of times. If we start tallying sins, we’ll spend the rest of the trip in this bathroom, and we’ll quickly find that my sins greatly outweigh yours.” 

Potter’s searched Draco’s face. “Okay... For the record though, I’m... I’m sorry.” He winced. “I never meant to... hurt you like that.” 

A bit bewildered, he nodded, with a slight shrug of his shoulder. “I’m sorry too.” He could probably mention what for, but it was just so, so much. 

Potter worried his lip with his teeth, observing Draco. They just looked at each other. 

“What can I do?” Potter asked. 

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Nothing. Honestly, it’s fine. It’s in the past.” He’d rather Potter just drop it, and, get out of the sodding bathroom, really. He’d had enough of being exposed. 

“I’ll—let me...” 

“Potter, it’s fine. What’s another mark on my body? Really.” 

Potter looked surprised at that, and his eyes raked over him. What—looking for others? Draco was thankful his back was to the wall, and his Dark Mark was pressed firmly against his chest. 

“Okay,” Potter said suddenly, a rosy flush had crept up the man’s neck. “Sorry. I’ll drop it.” 

Draco smiled, relieved. “Yes, good. Let’s just leave it all in the past where it belongs.” 

Potter smiled back, though tentatively, as he handed Draco the hair dryer. Draco took it. Potter did an awkward little hover, then cleared his throat, and left the bathroom. 

Draco shared a look with his reflection, like a ‘thank Merlin that’s over.’ 

He dressed quickly, and mostly dried his hair. Outside the bathroom, Draco found Potter sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for him. 

“Breakfast?” Potter asked. 

Draco bit at his bottom lip. It wasn’t like he could say no. “Alright. Yeah.”

~~

So there Draco was again, sitting across from Harry Potter having another meal. Together.

Clearing his throat, Potter said, “So I noticed you made a noise when that Asian bloke came on screen.” He promptly took a bite of Scotch pancake. 

Draco looked up at him warily. 

Potter swallowed his food, and went to cut off another piece. Draco couldn’t tell if Potter’s cheeks had darkened or if it was just his imagination. “So, you like blokes then, I take it? I mean... you don’t have to answer that. You don’t have to tell—” 

“I... do.” Draco looked at Potter curiously. 

“Ah.” 

Draco didn’t know what point Potter was trying to make at all. “Li Shang is just a drawing,” he reminded Potter. 

Potter laughed, darting glances from his plate and over to Draco and back. “But you like real human men too, yeah?” 

Draco narrowed his eyes and sighed. “ _Yes_.” 

Potter made a little sound of acknowledgment and kept eating. Draco went back to his own meal. 

“Er, do your parents know?” Potter asked, peering up at Draco from behind his eyelashes. 

Draco sighed, again. “Unfortunately, yes.” 

“Ah.” 

“Mother cried, father yelled,” Draco said, waving his fork around, and grimacing. “I told them a couple weeks ago.” 

“Oh. Sorry. That sounds rough. I can only imagine...” 

“Yeah, well, they just need time to process it, I think.” 

“I think you’re right, they love you a lot.” 

Draco looked at Potter, watching him break off another piece of Scotch pancake with his fork, and decided not to say anything. 

“So, ah, have you got a boyfriend?” 

Draco had to laugh. “Fuck no, have you seen me? I’m a fucking disaster.” 

Potter looked at him then, with something complicated written on his face. Like he was uncomfortable, perhaps. “I don’t think you’re a disaster.” 

Draco shrugged, and took another mouthful of food. Potter didn’t know what he was saying, he was just trying to be nice again. Draco might even get used to this Gryffindor kindness... it was a nice change of pace, really. Refreshing, even. Merlin, he might try it out himself sometime. 

“So...” Potter started. “Is there anything you want to do today? Like swim or go on a boat or something? Go on a walk? Kick a ball around? Play a board game?” 

Draco watched Potter ramble on, as he felt his own eyebrow go higher and higher. Potter clamped his mouth shut, and returned to cutting at his Scotch pancake. 

“I think I’ll read my book,” Draco said. 

“Oh.” Potter shot him a glance. “Okay. I could join you—” 

“Did you bring a book?” 

Potter blinked rapidly. “Well... no. But I’m sure there’s plenty of things I could do—” 

Draco shook his head. “Do one of those things you mentioned. I know you’re more of the ‘doing’ type.” 

Potter’s brow wrinkled. “The _doing_ type?” 

“Yeah, you always want to be moving. Being active.” 

“Not always,” he countered. 

Draco shrugged. 

Potter stared at Draco, seemingly at a loss. He licked his lips, then said, “So, you’re saying you prefer to be alone, then.” 

He shrugged again. “Yes.” He loved being left alone. 

Potter nodded, and dipped his head down, so that Draco couldn’t see his expression. “Alright. Yeah, maybe I’ll swim again or see what Ron’s up to.” 

Draco didn’t know why Potter felt the need to tell him all his plans, but, whatever. “Alright.” 

Potter looked up at Draco then, with a pinched mouth. “See you later, then.” 

“Yeah.” 

And Potter pushed his chair back, and walked off. There was still a bit of Scotch pancake left on his plate. Merlin, Potter was acting a bit weird.

~~

And Draco did have a pleasant afternoon reading by the fireplace in the lobby.

At dinner, he found Pansy sitting by herself at a table. “Where’s Blaise?” he asked. 

She glanced up at him as he slid into the seat across from her, and shot him a smile. “With Ronald Weasley.” 

His eyebrows shot up. “ _Why_?” He looked around, and, sure enough, Weasley and Blaise were excitedly talking to one another, beside a very bored-looking Potter. 

Potter’s eyes shifted to Draco’s in a flash. Draco whipped his head back around, and stared wide-eyed at Pansy. 

She shrugged with a knowing smile. “They’re getting along.” 

He blinked rapidly. That was a very, very weird concept. 

A waiter came by, and Draco ordered, but could barely concentrate. Weasley? And Blaise? What exactly did ‘getting along’ mean? And when did that start? 

Pansy laughed. “Relax, Draco. We’re not losing him to the dark side, it’s alright.” 

Draco frowned. 

“You and Potter are getting along too, aren’t you?” 

“I...” Guess so? He didn’t quite know how to answer that. Sure, they’d had a couple conversations—ones that hadn’t ended _too_ terribly. 

“You’ve sat together at meals,” Pansy pointed out. 

“You know about that?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, believe it or not, I eat here too.” 

“I never saw you when Potter and I...” 

Pansy smirked. “Of course you didn’t. The only two people in the world were you and him then, hmm? Total tunnel vision.” 

Ah... Was that true? 

“Anyway,” she said seriously, as she stood up straighter. “More importantly, the bonfire party is tonight.” 

Shaking his head, Draco’s immediate response was, “No.” 

Pansy groaned. “You’re unbelievable. Socialising with people is actually good for you, don’t you know? It’s in your best interest to go. God forbid you actually have _fun_ though, right?” 

He leaned forwards, so that no one would overhear. “It’s not about whether or not it’s fun.” He sighed and rubbed a palm over his face. Merlin, maybe Potter’s Gryffindor-ish honesty in conversation was rubbing off on him. “It’s about... well, no one wants me there.” 

Pansy slumped, and her eyes raked over his face. A sad smile formed on her lips. “I want you there.” 

Draco returned the smile. “I know... just, I don’t want to start anything. With, well, all the others.” 

She licked her lips, and shot him a determined glare. “Draco Lucius Malfoy. Everyone here is making an effort to get along. Look at Blaise and Weasley over there. Look at Potter... He’s been nice to you, hasn’t he? Has anyone given you a hard time at all this trip—anyone attacked you? No, right? Now what makes you think any of that would change, just because it’s at a party? Besides, if someone does start something, Blaise and I will be there. You won’t be alone. We’ve always got your back, okay?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer all of her questions, but... she might have a point. Loath as he was to admit it.

“That’s... that’s a lovely thought. But I don’t know—” 

“Draco,” Pansy interrupted with a frown. “You are coming to this bonfire and that’s final.” 

He raised his eyebrows. 

“It isn’t your average party. It’s not somebody’s room, where they’d all turn around to see who’d just walked through the door,” she continued, boring holes into him with her unblinking stare. “It’s going to be dark. It’s going to be relaxed. We are going to toast marshmallows, and you are going to enjoy it. If you get uncomfortable, you can sneak away in the dark without anyone noticing. You. Are. Going.” 

Merlin, she could put up an argument. And, against all better judgment, Draco found himself saying, “Fine.” 

Her expression erupted into a grin. “Excellent. Now, what will you wear?” 

Draco let her prattle on about the pros and cons of different outfits and styles, as he felt his pulse quicken at the thought of going to a party. 

He wasn’t sure he was quite ready.

~~

After dinner, Pansy followed Draco back to his room. Potter was there, sitting on the bed and watching the telly—something with turtles and a narrator with a low, soothing voice was playing. Harry eyed them both warily as they entered, as something twitched in his jaw.

“Potter,” Pansy said in greeting, barely looking at him. 

“Parkinson.” 

“Show me your clothes, Draco.” 

Well this wasn’t embarrassing at all... having Pansy dress him right in front of Potter, like she was his mum. Worst of all, it conveyed to Potter that Draco actually _cared_ about what he looked like that evening. Which, he didn’t. Well... not really. As Pansy had repeated so many times—it'd be outside, in the dark. 

He gestured wordlessly to his drawer. 

“ _The turtles’ ancestry dates back to the time of the dinosaurs_ ,” the telly informed them. 

Pansy raised an eyebrow and shot Draco a look, before going over to open the drawer and rifle through everything. Draco chanced a glance at Potter... and Potter looked back, with something complicated twisting on his face. Draco looked away, and sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for Pansy to finish. 

“This won’t do, this won’t do,” she muttered to herself. “Hmm...” She pulled out a pair of black jeans. “Wear these.” She tossed them over. 

Draco sighed, and caught them in one hand. 

Pansy looked behind her, at Draco, then, at Potter. _Oh no, Pansy. You promised—_

“Potter, have you an extra of those,” she waved her hand about, “those jumpers with the zipper.” 

Draco gritted his teeth. 

“Hoodies?” Potter asked, clearly surprised to be involved in this. “Um. Yeah.” 

“May I see?” 

“Alright,” he waved a hand toward his open suitcase. All his clothes were spilling out of it, like they’d been swept up in a contained personal-sized tornado. 

Pansy pursed her lips disapprovingly, but did not comment. She eyed the mound of clothes warily, before pulling out a ‘hoodie’, pinched between thumb and index finger. “Here you are, Draco.” 

This definitely counted as meddling, he thought, as he took the soft, thick black hoodie from her. He chanced a glance at Potter, who was eyeing the telly with a very neutral expression. 

Draco subtly hugged the hoodie to his chest, as Pansy went back to his drawer. 

“Hmm, black jeans and black jumper... Maybe a... white t-shirt? Yes. We’ll go with colourless, and maximum contrast,” Pansy said, as if to herself, as she rifled through Draco’s clothes some more. She found what she was looking for, and tossed the white shirt over. Draco caught it in one hand, keeping hold of Potter’s hoodie with the other. “Alright,” she said, standing up. “Put them on.” 

Wordlessly, Draco carried his pile of clothing over to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Only then did he really hug the hoodie, burying his nose in the hood part. 

It smelled like Potter—like a warm living room. Like home. That’s the only way he knew to describe it. 

He pulled off his clothes, and put these new ones on. 

The hoodie was a little large on him, and felt so warm. Draco never wanted to take it off. It was so _soft_. And just so... Harry. 

He glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked a bit better today—more rested, more relaxed. And the outfit was pretty good. Merlin—he still couldn’t believe Pansy had gotten him to wear some of Potter’s clothes. It almost seemed... too intimate a thing. Didn’t Potter realise that at all? Of course not. He was straight. It was just like doing a mate a favour, when they had nothing else to wear. Not that Draco thought they were really mates, just, approximations of friends, perhaps. Acquaintances who no longer fought like cats and dogs— 

“See you down there!” Potter called out, interrupting Draco from his train of thought. 

Draco blinked back at his reflection. 

He heard the door close. 

“Draco! Are you done in there?” called Pansy from the other side of the bathroom door. 

He opened it. 

Pansy looked him up and down, grinning. 

Draco shook his head at her. “I can’t believe you just _asked_ him...” 

She winked. “You only get what you want if you ask for it, darling.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that. 

Pansy hooked her arm in the crook of his elbow, and said, “Come on. Help me choose what to wear, then we’ll go down together.”

~~

The sun had long ago set, so Pansy produced a torch from somewhere and clicked it on. She steered them onto a dirt path, in the opposite direction of Draco’s usual hiking trail. It was eerily quiet—who knew what manner of creatures lingered out of sight. Draco had always been frightened of forests at night. Probably ever since that harrowing detention in First year. He held on tight to Pansy’s arm.

They walked, arm-in-arm, with her light guiding the way, until they came upon a clearing lit by bright crackling bonfire. 

Draco could make out shadowy figures as they approached—some seated on horizontally-placed logs around the fire, others arranged in small groups nearby. 

Someone had set up a fold-up card table off to the side, where bottles of liquor and plastic red cups had been placed. 

As they neared, no one turned to stare at him. No one seemed bothered at all by his presence. Well, not yet, anyway. It was still early to truly assess. 

Pansy led them up to the drink table, and dropped his arm in order to fix drinks for the two of them. Draco looked around while he waited for her. She’d been right, it seemed. It was a very casual gathering, with people just milling about—sipping from red cups and looking at the fire or chatting. Not really very scary at all. 

A cup was thrust into his hands. He peered down at it, and brought it closer to his face to take a tentative sniff. Ah—cinnamon. Firewhisky, then. 

He took a sip. 

Pansy leaned her head into his upper arm. “All right?” 

He smiled, a little. “All right.” And leaned over to kiss the top of her head. 

Blaise came over, throwing an arm over Draco’s shoulders. “Glad you made it.” 

Draco shot him a tentative smile, and took another sip of Firewhisky. 

“Come on, let’s sit by the fire,” Blaise said, nudging Draco with the arm still around him. 

So, the three of them found an empty log, and bunched in together. 

They chatted about nothing important, and drank. 

It was Draco’s turn to fetch them their third refill. So he grabbed their cups, and went to the table to fill them up with more Firewhisky. 

A hand grabbed onto his arm. He turned, to find that Pansy, for whatever reason, had followed him. 

“Have you talked to Potter yet?” 

Draco raised his eyebrows, as he simultaneously realised Pansy was rocking side to side a bit. “I’ve been with you the whole time. Pansy...” he lowered his voice. “Are you drunk? Off two drinks?” 

She shrugged and narrowed her eyes. “I’m smaller than you, so what!” 

He laughed. “You’d better take it easy then.” 

“Potter, though.” 

Whatever that meant. Draco looked around, until he spotted the man. Potter was sat with Weasley on a log by the fire, and was gazing into it with reflections of the flames dancing on his glasses. 

“I’m going to talk to him,” Pansy said, shooting glares at the man, and swaying slightly. 

Draco grabbed her arm before she could march over to Potter. “ _Don’t_. Please. Just... leave him be.” 

“I’m not going to tell him anything about you, Draco. I just want to have a normal conversation.” 

“Pansy—” Whatever she thought was normal was sure to be skewed somehow. 

His heartrate sped up. What had started out as a relaxed evening, seemed to be quickly turning into something that could ruin... well, ruin a lot. 

“It’s fine, darling. I’m allowed to speak to him, aren’t I? And don’t you know I’d never jeopardise your chances?” 

She’d never—”My chances?! There are no chances, Pansy,” he said adamantly, tilting his head to look her head on, with full eye-contact, hoping she’d get the message. 

Pansy shrugged. “Fine. Nothing to worry about then, right? I’ll just be a mo’.” 

He let go of her arm, and watched, helplessly, as she prowled over to Harry Potter. She took him by the hand and led him away, and... Potter just let her. Draco stared at their joined hands in awe—as if it were simple to just... hold Potter’s hand like that. 

_Maybe he likes her_ , Draco thought with a jolt to the chest. 

Harry Potter was most definitely straight and he fancied Draco’s best friend. 

Draco knocked back his drink, and immediately poured another. Blaise and Pansy’s cups went forgotten. 

Okay.

It was okay. If they wanted to be together, he'd be absolutely supportive.

He swiped a hand over his face. And he’d be happy if they were happy. 

Probably. 

He found himself on a log eventually. Blaise had disappeared somewhere. So Draco stared, as if hypnotised, into the dancing blues, yellows, oranges and reds of the fire, with cup of Firewhisky in hand. He watched sparks fly off into the night air and fade away. He enjoyed the way the wood shifted and moved and bubbled within the flames—transformed. He enjoyed feeling the heat on his face, and the cold air on his back. The contrast was lovely. 

And the smell—the smell might have been the best part. 

With Firewhisky warm in his belly, the crackling fire in front of him, with Potter’s hoodie hugging his torso, paired with all the sounds of his happy classmates around him, Draco felt... not bad. 

The alcohol made his head a bit cloudy. He didn’t feel drunk, just... relaxed. He’d nearly forgotten that Pansy had taken Potter someplace to talk. 

He took a sip of his drink, and enjoyed the heat of it as it went down—just as he pretended that he did _not_ suspect Pansy and Potter may be snogging at that very moment. 

Someone sat beside him, he looked—and it was just Pansy. She grinned at him through half-closed eyes. 

“Draco... I had a talk with your Potter.” 

He blinked at her, and decided to ignore the ‘your’. “Well. That’s nice.” 

“He thinks you _hate_ him.” Her smile didn’t falter. 

Draco furrowed his brow, and searched her drunken face. “What?” 

“He thinks you _hate_ him, Draco. He thinks you avoid him.” 

“I... I don’t...” 

“He’s probably already madly in love with you, Draco.” 

“Merlin, you’re drunk, Pansy.” 

“He loves you.” 

“Stop.” 

He looked around for Blaise, and found him, talking to Weasley by the drink table. Draco raised his eyebrows, lifted a hand and pointed at Pansy overtop her head. Blaise rolled his eyes, but smiled anyhow, and swaggered over to rescue Draco from his ridiculous best friend. 

“C’mon Pans, dear. Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” 

“Blaise?” asked Pansy, squinting up at him. “Oh alright.” 

Blaise helped her onto her feet, and made to leave, but not before Pansy could lean towards Draco once more and hiss, “Loves you.” 

He watched their retreating backs and sighed in relief. Pansy could’ve easily got him in so much trouble. 

Draco turned back to the fire, but his eye caught on Potter moving to sit across the way, on his own log, alone. Draco looked around, no one was paying him any attention. He spotted Finnegan and Thomas snogging not far away. He snapped his gaze back to the fire. 

He considered what Pansy had said—not the love part, the part about Potter thinking Draco hated him. Could that be true? Granted, he had said ‘no’ a fair bit, lately. But that was only because he’d had to. Certainly Potter wouldn’t care or think twice about it. 

Draco snuck another glance at Potter. He was just sitting there, staring at the fire. He didn’t have a drink. Draco could... could get him one, perhaps. 

He looked down at his own nearly empty cup and sighed. It’d be an excuse. A perfectly normal excuse to just... to just... Well, it was only a drink. 

So, Draco got up and made his way to the drink table. Weasley was stood there, speaking with MacMillan now. He eyed Draco with obvious wariness, but it was better than outright disdain, Draco figured. 

He refilled his cup, and took a fresh one for Potter. He tossed one last look at Weasley and nodded, and the small gesture was met with a look of curiosity. That was... better. Progress, perhaps. 

Onwards then, he approached Potter. Holding two cups. He probably looked pathetically desperate—no. It was just a cup of Firewhisky. Perfectly normal. 

Just as he was three paces away, Longbottom planted himself down beside Potter. 

Draco froze. He felt unable to do anything. This was an unforeseen hiccup in the plan. 

Where had his confidence gone? He used to just swagger up to people. Well... that’d been a bit of a façade, hadn’t it? He’d been a poor imitation of his father. 

“Malfoy?” Longbottom had noticed him. 

Potter whipped his head around, and looked up at Draco with a glazed and open face. Drunk then, probably. “Draco.” 

Draco bit his lip and nodded at them, suppressing a full-body shiver at the sound of his given name coming from Potter’s mouth. 

“You brought an extra drink?” Potter asked starring at the contents of Draco’s hands, slurring his words just slightly. 

“Er, for Longbottom.” It seemed like Potter didn’t need it. 

Potter furrowed his brow and his forehead wrinkled. “For... Longbottom?” 

“Yeah, uh, would you like it?” Draco asked Longbottom, who was shooting him a look of disbelief. 

“Oh, okay. Thanks, Malfoy.” 

Draco nodded and handed it over. “Not a problem. Well... I’ll just be off.” 

“Stay,” Potter said, then looked bewildered at his own word. 

“Yeah, we can make room,” Longbottom offered, shifted over on the log, and Potter followed suit. 

“Ah. Alright.” So, Draco sat, next to Potter. 

He could feel the heat off Potter. Always so warm. And then, Potter shifted back over, towards Draco, so that their sides firmly touched—pressed together from shoulder to knee. 

Merlin help him. 

Draco hyper-focused on the fire in front of them, but the steady rise and fall of Potter’s body against him was very difficult to ignore. 

He took a sip of Firewhisky, staring at the flames. And then he went to lower the cup to rest on his lap, but Potter intercepted it midway, prying it out of Draco’s hands—brushing their fingers together in the process. It gave him goose bumps on the back of his neck. 

Potter took a long swig from Draco’s cup. 

Draco didn’t want to think about silly things like second-hand kissing, but... 

“So canoeing is really fun,” said Longbottom. 

“Is it?” Potter murmured, and Draco could feel Potter’s voice echoing through his own body. 

“Yeah, the person in the back steers, so when I first tried with Ron we just kept going around in circles. But once you get the hang of it—” 

Potter placed the cup back in Draco’s hands. Draco brought it up to his mouth as if automatically, and took a sip, closing his eyes. 

“—it’s fun. You can get up close to the islands. But you need to watch for rocks under the water's surface. We even saw an eagle’s nest!” 

Potter hummed a response, and took the cup straight from Draco’s mouth. 

Draco cast the man a half-hearted glare, since, well... truthfully, he was enjoying sharing if he was being honest. 

Potter smirked back and took a long drink. 

“I heard kayaking was fun, too. I might like to try that tomorrow. Though Ernie flipped right over and got soaked, so I’m not 100 percent sold on it yet. It’s just too cold to get dunked in the lake.” 

“Mm,” Potter acknowledged Longbottom, while looking at Draco, and passing back the cup. 

“Well you two are chatty, I think I’ll go find Ron.” 

“Okay,” said Potter. 

Draco focused in on the fire again, willing his heartrate to slow down. He wondered if Potter could feel it. And if he could, what he’d think about it. 

The silence dragged on, as the fire crackled and Draco continued to feel the movement of Potter’s breaths. 

They should talk, shouldn’t they? 

If Potter really did think Draco hated him... 

He cleared his throat. “Ah... did Pansy bother you earlier?” 

Potter grabbed the cup again and gave it a swirl before taking a drink. “No.” 

“Oh. That’s good,” Draco said, facing towards the fire, though Potter hadn’t really revealed anything. “I don’t know what she said... but I know she is rather drunk, so she isn’t exactly her usual self. Well, granted, she’s usually quite nosey, but tonight—tonight probably much worse.” 

“S’fine.” 

Draco pressed his mouth shut. 

“She asked about you.” 

Draco suppressed a groan, instead he ran fingers through his hair. “I see.” 

“I told her the truth.” 

Draco’s heartrate sped up, if that was even possible. “Is that so?” he managed. “And what is... the truth?” Merlin, the Firewhisky had loosened his tongue. 

“I told her you hate me.” 

Draco blinked rapidly. So that part had been true, then. He stared unseeing into the crackling flames. “I don’t hate you.” It was an admission, that’s for sure. Almost as bad as saying ‘ _I love you_ ’. 

“You don’t?” 

“I don’t,” he said quietly. 

“Oh,” Potter exhaled. “But you’re always avoiding me—all of us. You never go out to things. This is the first time.” 

“I don’t hate any of you.” Had that really been what Potter had thought all that time? “I just... didn’t think I’d be welcome.” 

“You are, though! I invited you.” 

“Sure, out of pity or goodness or something.” He felt Potter’s eyes on him, so he looked over. And Potter seemed so earnest and wide-eyed there. 

“No. They were real invites.” 

Draco couldn’t help but smile. 

Potter’s eyes dropped to Draco’s mouth. 

Before he could do something stupid, Draco wrestled the cup out of Potter’s clenched hands and took a gulp. 

Weasley sauntered over with a bunch of metal sticks in one hand, and a big plastic bag in the other. He seemed to eye the lack of space in between them with a frown, but handed them both a stick anyhow. 

“Thanks mate,” said Potter cheerfully, accepting his stick. 

Draco took his more hesitantly. 

Weasley held the bag of huge marshmallows open for them both to take a couple, then he turned to move on to other people. 

“ _He_ definitely hates me,” Draco commented, watching Weasley give out marshmallows to Longbottom. 

Potter was clumsily wedging a marshmallow onto his stick. “Hmm?” 

“Weasley.” 

“Ron? Nah, he doesn’t hate you.” 

“He’s spent half this trip glaring at me,” Draco said, eyeing Potter pointedly. 

“He’s just protective of me.” Potter’s eyes widened. “I—I mean—” 

“He thinks I’d hurt you,” Draco finished for him. As if Slytherins would really go around smothering people in their sleep. Well, granted, his aunt might've. Draco sighed. 

Potter looked back at him, with eyes still too-wide. “Er... Yeah, that’s probably it.” 

Draco nodded solemnly. 

Potter whipped his head to face forwards, to concentrate on his marshmallow again. With it secure, he extended his stick straight into the fire. The marshmallow ignited immediately. 

“Potter—” 

He removed his marshmallow, holding it up vertically to watch the flames eat away at the white of it, slowly turning its whole surface black. Once the fire was out, Potter popped the burnt marshmallow into his mouth, and the sound it made was crinkly. 

Draco watched it all in awe. “You’re not supposed to... just catch it on fire.” 

Potter turned and grinned at him. “I like it this way.” 

Draco blinked back at him, momentarily struck dumb by Potter aiming that grin _at him_. Merlin’s balls... it was the most lovely thing. 

“Go on, show me your way, then,” Potter said, bumping Draco’s shoulder. 

Coming back into himself, he swallowed, and did as he was told. Draco extended his stick to aim the marshmallow near the base of the flames, not _in_ them, and slowly turned it. 

“Your way’s slow,” said Potter, popping a second marshmallow onto his stick. 

“Good things don’t always come quickly. You have to work at them,” Draco said, with a small smile as he kept turning his stick. 

Potter looked at him with an unreadable expression, and uttered a small, “Hmm.” And then he plunged his second marshmallow into the fire. He repeated the same steps, taking it out to watch the flame engulf its surface. “So,” he started. 

Draco glanced at him, but Potter was staring at his marshmallow. 

“Are you going to hurt me, then?” 

"What? No!” he blurted. Did Potter really believe—? After these past days... He looked at Potter, who had turned to smile at him then, the sight of which made Draco press his mouth firmly closed. 

“I hope not, because I like hanging out with you.” At that, Potter popped his burnt marshmallow in his mouth, and it filled up his cheeks. All the while still smiling at Draco. 

Draco had to take a deep breath. “Oh.” 

Potter nudged Draco’s shoulder again, and swallowed his mouthful. “Can I have your second marshmallow?” 

A bit dazed, Draco nodded, handing it over. 

“Thanks.” 

His gaze floated over to his own marshmallow, which was getting nicely browned on all sides. He pulled it out, clearing his throat. “See, Potter. This is a proper toasted marshmallow.” 

“Nah,” Potter answered, plunging his third marshmallow into the flames. 

Draco nibbled his, watching Potter and his ridiculous technique. Draco’s marshmallow was perfect, thank-you-very-much. 

“Try it my way,” said Potter, thrusting his blackened marshmallow towards him. 

Shaking his head, Draco let out a laugh. “Not a chance.” 

“Come on, you’ll see it’s loads better.” Potter tried to put it very close to Draco's mouth. 

Draco rolled his eyes, moving away, but couldn’t keep a smile off his face. 

“Harry? Can I talk to you?” 

Potter turned his head, and Draco followed where he was looking. It was Ronald Weasley... The man was shooting significant looks at Potter. 

“What?” Potter called out. 

Weasley tilted his head to the side, indicating Potter should meet him over that way. “Come on.” 

Potter grunted, but lifted himself off the log anyway, taking his burnt marshmallow with him. Halfway, he turned around and shot Draco an apologetic smile, which was altogether unnecessary, but... nice. 

He watched Weasley throw an arm around Potter’s shoulders and lead him off someplace, whispering into his ear. Draco took another bite out of his marshmallow, wondering what that was all about. 

Evidently Pansy and Blaise had found their way back, as Pansy was swaying her way over to him, grinning. Blaise wasn’t with her. 

She plopped herself down beside Draco. “I saw that,” Pansy slurred. 

“Saw what?” Draco asked, wondering why he was even bothering—because anything they talked about was sure to be nonsensical. She should probably get some water and go to bed. 

“You were very close.” She looked pointedly at him, with half-closed eyes. 

Draco laughed. “Yes.” 

“People touch people they like,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. 

He smiled. “I like you too, Pans.” 

Pansy frowned. “Not me!” 

Draco laughed again, throwing an arm around her shoulders and hugging her to him. “I know what you meant.” 

“Where’d he go,” she murmured into his chest. 

“I don’t know, off with Weasley someplace.” 

“Hmm.” 

As if on cue, Potter sauntered over, with what looked like a fresh drink in hand. He squinted at Pansy, and Draco’s arm around her. “That’s my spot.” 

Pansy blinked owlishly up at him. “Potter!” she exclaimed. 

“Budge over,” he said, frowning slightly. 

Pansy flashed all her teeth with a grin, and struggled to push herself up off the log. Draco tried to help steady her, and eventually she got it. 

“Maybe you should... call it a night soon,” Draco suggested gently. “Aren’t you tired?” 

Pansy shot him a look from where she stood (barely stood). “Maybe.” 

He smiled. “Go find Blaise.” 

She grumbled, but sauntered off in the direction of the drink table. Or maybe Draco should’ve offered to take her— 

Potter sat down in her place, flush against Draco again. 

“Maybe I should help Pansy,” Draco wondered aloud, watching her back. 

Potter took a sip from his cup. “No. Look, she’s okay.” 

Sure enough, Blaise had intercepted her and was currently leading her back towards the main building, with a torch guiding their way. 

“Oh.” Draco realised, “I haven’t got a torch. Maybe I should catch up with them.” 

Potter fumbled around in his pocket, and handed one over to Draco wordlessly. 

“Ah. Right. Thanks.” 

“Stay,” Potter mumbled into his cup, before taking a sip. 

“Er, yeah,” Draco said, staring into the flames. “What did... Weasley want?” 

Potter shrugged against Draco’s side. “Asked if I know what I’m doing. And gave me more drinks.” 

Draco raised his eyebrows, and, before he could respond with anything, he had Potter’s cup shoved into his hands. 

“I’m done. No more drinking.” 

Draco smiled privately, and took a gulp. As the warming liquid went down, he realised he felt pretty light and open. He’d hit just the right amount of buzzed, he figured. He still had most of his wits about him, but was pleasantly relaxed. Just right, really. 

And then Potter laid his head down on Draco’s shoulder. 

Merlin... The man was a lot touchier than Draco would’ve ever imagined. Strangely... he thought he might be getting used to it. 

They stared into the fire together. And it felt... surprisingly comfortable.

It wasn’t long before Potter was dozing off. 

“Potter.” 

“Mm,” Potter grumbled, and did not move. 

“You’re falling asleep.” 

“Mm.” 

“Come on, we should go back to our room.” Draco nudged Potter’s leg with his knee a bit. 

“Our room?” Potter asked, before rubbing his face on Draco’s shoulder. 

“ _Yes_ , our room. Don’t you want to sleep in a bed?” 

“With you?” 

Oh Salazar fucking Slytherin. “Well—in the same room! With me,” he managed to choke out. Harry had tilted his sleepy face up towards Draco, his expression soft and slack, and every part of him was just so bloody _near_. 

“Oh.” 

“Come on, let’s get up. Alright?” Draco moved to get up, and, surprisingly, Potter followed suit while clinging onto Draco’s sleeve. 

Draco fumbled around with the torch, trying to get it to work, while Potter was no help whatsoever. Eventually he figured out that the button was meant to be shifted, rather than pushed down, and he blasted himself with light straight in the eyes. 

Potter just waited patiently clinging to Draco’s sleeve and saying nothing, while Draco struggled with temporary blindness to guide them away from the bonfire. 

Potter leaned heavily on him as they walked the path. 

“The stars!” Potter exclaimed, linking his arm in Draco’s as he tilted his face to the sky. 

Draco glanced up—and indeed there were stars. A lot of stars. It wasn’t unlike those clear Hogwarts nights, when most of the castle lights were off, and you could gaze out into the great infinite expanse of space from stop the Astronomy Tower. And it was always beautiful, yes. Sublime even. But he’d never before looked at the stars with Harry Potter, surrounded by trees. Nor had he seen them with Harry Potter’s arm linked tightly through his. 

And it simultaneously felt like he was miniscule... insignificant—a speck of dust on a giant tapestry, while also as if he and Potter were larger, bigger, somehow—the only two people left. Sharing communion with the great abyss. 

Or perhaps he was just being weird. And had one too many. 

Nonetheless it felt warm... inside of his chest. 

“Draco?” 

That snapped him out of it. Hearing Potter say his given name was likely to be the death of him. “Yes?” 

“Don’t hate me again.” 

“What? Why? What happened?” The first place his imagination went was: Potter destroyed his book. Tossed it in the lake. He could laugh, what a stupid thing to imagine. He tried to look at Potter’s face, but the man was facing forward and it was impossible to get a read on him. 

“Nothing. Just... please don’t hate me again.” Potter gripped harder on his arm. 

They’d reached the back door of the resort, and Draco didn’t know what to say... so he opened the door, and they navigated their way in, which was a little ungraceful with Potter’s refusal to drop his arm, so they had to shimmy in on an angle. 

Draco blinked at the florescent lighting of the hallway, as they weaved their way towards the lobby. 

He licked his bottom lip. “Harry Potter...” Merlin, what was he doing? “It would be very difficult to hate you.” 

“You did before.” 

Did he? “Well... that was through jealousy and sheer, stubborn force of will. Plus, I was a bit of a git, wasn’t I?” 

Potter chuckled breathily, leaning in to him. “Yeah. You were.” 

“Hey,” Draco said, nudging Potter. “You’re not supposed to agree with me.” 

Potter laughed under his breath again. Then he stopped in his tracks, but Draco kept moving without realising straight away. It caused Draco to stop and whirl around when Potter’s arm on his couldn’t extend any longer. Potter was like an anchor. 

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked. Potter was wide-eyed with a pinched mouth, staring at him. He glanced around—and the lobby was empty. There was a 'be right back' sign on the front desk. 

“I just want you to do things with me!” Potter blurted. 

Ah— _what_? Potter seemed upset, actually upset about it. Draco blinked, not comprehending this sudden outburst. “Er, we can do things.” 

“You refused to swim with me,” he said petulantly, frowning at Draco. 

This again? It was only bloody swimming. “Well, I had a reason, Potter,” he said carefully. 

“What.” Potter frowned with a furrowed brow. Merlin, he was cute when he was drunk and a bit pouty... 

Fuck it all. “I don’t look good,” he said low. He’d rather not have anyone overhear, even if there wasn’t evidence of anyone within earshot. 

Potter froze and his frown disappeared. He looked at Draco with wide eyes. _So green_. “But I saw you...” 

“What?” 

“In a towel. This morning.” 

Oh. “Not everything.” 

Potter blushed, hard. And averted his eyes. 

He didn’t mean— _Merlin_. “You didn’t see my scars.” 

Potter snapped his head back to look at Draco again, searchingly. His drunk, concerned face was... fucking adorable. “I did—” 

“The other ones.” 

Potter blinked at him. “Other ones?” he asked, barely above a whisper. 

“Yes,” Draco answered matter-of-factly. Courtesy of how much alcohol he’d drank, most likely. He wasn’t Pansy-level drunk, of course. But his tongue was certainly loosened. He’d probably answer any question Potter asked. 

“Where?” 

“From my lower back to upper thighs.” 

Potter blinked at that. “What happened?” 

“I got hurt, but I’m okay now.” 

Potter grabbed onto both of Draco’s biceps. “Who hurt you?” Potter demanded softly, searching Draco’s eyes. Merlin’s beard did he look earnest. 

Draco could smile at that innocent, worried face. So, he did. “Voldemort.” 

Potter looked absolutely pained by that information. “Why?” he asked under his breath. 

That was the one question he couldn’t answer right then and there. It would upset Potter to hear. It would upset Draco to say, come to think of it. “If you still want to know tomorrow... I’ll tell you tomorrow.” 

“It’s bad?” Potter said, in nearly a whisper. 

Draco did his best to smile. “It’s... it’s okay, now.” He might even believe that. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.” 

Potter paused to think that over. He seemed to accept it, because soon enough he nodded with a complicated expression, and linked his arm in Draco’s again. 

They rode the lift together in silence, with Potter leaning his head on Draco’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ❤️


	4. Chapter 4

The sun had only just begun to rise, casting the room in pale grey light. Draco squinted his eyes open. Everything was silent—save the soft inhales and exhales of his roommate. His mouth tasted something awful, it was dry as sand, and he could use a piss, so he rolled out of bed and stumbled into the washroom. After relieving himself, one glance in the mirror made him groan—his hair in disarray, and skin seemingly paler than usual. 

So Draco washed his hands, then splashed cold water on his face. He looked back at himself—that was a bit better. Merlin, his mouth tasted bad. He cupped his hands on the running water and drank a few handfuls. And finally, he brushed his teeth. 

Ack. He wasn’t a drinker, really. He didn’t feel sick, exactly, just kind of blah. Sticky, even. Had he spilled something on himself? Firewhisky? Marshmallows? 

Gross. 

He could use a bit more sleep, but wasn’t going to get it feeling like this. 

So, in a spur of the moment decision, he turned on the shower and climbed in. The hot water began to relax his stiff muscles, and make him feel loads better. Almost like he could wash away some of the poison he’d voluntarily ingested the night before. 

Stepping out of the shower, Draco towelled off. Then he realised that he hadn’t brought in a change of clothes. Ugh—Of course. 

And there was no way he was putting his sticky clothes back on. 

Well, there was nothing left to do but leave the bathroom. Potter was probably fast asleep anyhow. 

So, he left the bathroom, with only a towel wrapped around his waist, and headed straight for his drawer. 

A groan came from Potter’s bed. Draco froze, and turned his head slowly. Potter had a pillow over his face, and arms splayed over top. 

Draco slowly opened the drawer, careful to not make too much sound. 

Potter pulled the pillow off his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

Draco turned, momentarily forgetting his towel-problem because an apology was the last thing he expected to hear right then. “Sorry... for _what_?” 

Potter frowned over at him, squinting without his glasses and his hair a wild mess—well, wilder than usual. “For last night.” 

“For last night,” he echoed, racking his memory of the bonfire. No, there’d been nothing to apologise for. He was quite sure. 

Potter groaned again, throwing an arm over his eyes to hide them. “I was so clingy with you and annoying. Just... inserting myself in your space like that.” 

Draco opened his mouth and closed it. He could tell Potter that he’d enjoyed it, but that was pretty close to a confession of... well, affection. And, to put it frankly, he’d rather dance with a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Probably. He took one step closer to Potter’s bed, before remembering his near-nakedness. “You didn’t...” he started. He licked his bottom lip. “You didn’t annoy me. It’s fine. Nothing to apologise for.” 

“I shouldn’t drink,” Potter said miserably, as if he hadn’t heard Draco. "Oh my God—I'd demanded that you don't hate me." He groaned, covering his whole face with his hands then.

Draco let a laugh escape, before he could clamp his mouth shut. He didn't want Potter to get the wrong idea. Because... Merlin, the 'demand' had been so bloody endearing, and the memory of it—just... it made him want to laugh. Not in a mean way, but rather in a happy way? If that was possible? "Sorry," he rushed to say, and cleared his throat, taking another step forward. "It was fine."

"I kept stealing your drink," Harry said, muffled behind his hands.

Harry was just naming off all the best parts, really.

“It was a fun night. I had fun," Draco said, stepping forward some more.

“...Yeah?” 

Draco smiled. “Yeah.” 

“I didn’t bother you?” 

Draco had never thought Potter insecure—never thought he was insecure about anything. He was confident and perfect, always triumphing and doing what was right. So, he didn’t know where all this was coming from. He exhaled slowly, and found himself smiling again. “You did.” 

“I knew it,” Potter moaned, flipping over onto his stomach, and burying his face in the pillow. 

“Your marshmallow roasting was atrocious to behold,” Draco added, with a slight smirk. Merlin, Potter was being dramatic. 

Potter scoffed in protest, and then peeked at him. “That’s all?” 

Draco shrugged his shoulders, keeping a tight hold on his towel. “That’s all.” 

Potter sat up, and his covers dropped to his waist, revealing expanses of well-muscled naked chest. Draco kept his eyes carefully levelled on Potter’s face. “There’s something else.” 

“Oh?” Draco bit at his bottom lip, he was not going to look down. 

Potter’s expression looked pained, and he averted his eyes. “You told me... about your scars.” 

Something twisted in Draco’s insides. “Yes.” 

“Maybe you revealed more than you’d wanted to, to _me_. And I pushed you too hard, asking things I shouldn’t have asked. Things that are none of my business.” 

“It’s okay,” Draco said automatically. Potter looked sceptical and a bit distraught. “I’m... fine with you knowing.” He meant that, though he’d be hard-pressed to come up with an explanation. Draco took another step forward. 

Potter stared at him; his expression conflicted. “I should’ve saved you. I should’ve brought you with us, at the Manor then. I should have done more to help you. _Something_ to help you, so that you wouldn’t have to go through... that...” 

That. 

Draco was definitely nearly at Potter’s bedside. 

“I knew Voldemort was getting angrier and increasingly desperate, and I knew he would take it out on you and your family. I knew that your family had disappointed him... and then I just took those wands, leaving you defenceless... Oh God, and your face was bleeding from the chandelier.” Harry’s eyes widened, and darted to Draco’s face. Draco knew what he must see—the tiny raised lines on his face. 

Draco sat down on the edge of Harry’s bed, and twisted to face him. “Harry... I am alive. Because of you.” 

Harry blinked back at him, evidently stunned out of his downward-spiralling monologue. His eyes were so bright... and his face seemed so very _bare_ , without his glasses on.

Draco felt the edge of his mouth lift, in an almost-smile. “I thought we agreed not to do this... that we weren’t going to talk of the past again, but I see now that it was unavoidable.” He took a breath, and found himself staring off at the wall behind Harry’s shoulder. “You are just one person, and... just like me, you were hardly more than a child in the war. Should someone have saved me that day? When I was being punished? Maybe. But not you. My parents perhaps, my aunt, Severus, or Dumbledore even. _Adults_ , is what I’m trying to emphasise here... adults who should’ve known better. Should’ve protected me... from a monster. Rather than indenture me to him—essentially throwing me at his feet.” 

He heard Harry exhale shakily. 

“You saved me, though, in the end. You have to realise that, don’t you? You came back for me... in the Room of Requirement. I still don’t understand why you would do that... I guess it’s thanks to your unfailing chivalry and overall goodness.” Draco huffed a laugh, and glanced at Harry, who was staring back with wet, unreadable eyes. 

“And most of all,” Draco continued, sobered by Harry’s expression. “You saved me because you defeated _him_. It’s only because of you... that I’m free from that nightmare.” 

Harry didn’t say anything in response, so Draco kept going. “They’re just scars, all of it is just marks, like on a parchment.” He furrowed his brow as an idea came to him. “I’d never really thought of this before, but... the scars mean that I survived. That my body took care of me and healed the wounds, stitching me back together... The scars mean that I’m still here.” He looked down at his folded hands over his lap, and smiled. That... that felt nice to realise. 

“You asked me why I was punished,” Draco continued. “It was stupid, really. I’ve always been so good at Occlumency, so good at putting up walls and hiding myself—my true self. But I must have been too stressed, too tired, that I let it slip.” 

Harry sucked in a breath. 

“He saw what I thought about to cope... to keep myself reasonably sane...” Green eyes. Black curls. Scars that read _I must not tell lies_. “He discovered my secret. That I’m gay. Which—no surprise there—is deplorable to him. So he marked me up so hideously that no one would ever touch me.” 

There. He’d told someone. 

It hadn’t been as difficult as he thought it would be. 

Draco glanced at Harry with a small smile—a smile that fell when he saw the wet trails of tears on Harry’s cheeks, and the way his wet eyelashes clumped up together. Harry was biting his lip, clearly trying to hold back. 

“It’s alright,” Draco said, hoping that would help somehow. 

Harry threw his arms around Draco’s shoulders, burying his wet face in Draco’s shoulder blade. “It isn’t,” Harry blubbered against Draco’s skin. “It isn’t alright.” 

“Well... we’re both okay... and that’s good, right?” 

“Mm.” 

Draco realised then that rain was softly falling against the window. He hadn’t noticed it start. The gentle sounds filled the room, as Potter held him close. 

He tentatively raised his hand to place it on Harry’s forearm, the one that was splayed across Draco’s chest. They sat like that for a long moment. 

“Sorry,” Harry said, pulling back, and wiping at his cheeks. Breathing out heavily. 

Draco nodded, letting his hand fall back to his lap. 

“Can I...” Harry started carefully. “Could I see them? The scars?” 

He hadn’t expected that. 

“You can say no!” Harry rushed to add. 

"Yes."

Harry reached for his glasses on the nightstand—and put them on.

To see Draco better.

Draco shifted his towel, so that it loosened in the back, dipping low. 

Harry sucked in a breath.

Draco shut his eyes. He knew how it looked. 

“Does it hurt at all still?” Harry asked. 

He shook his head. 

Thunder boomed in the distance. It was a proper storm today, then. 

“What does it feel like?” 

Draco turned to Harry, saw him looking down at his scars. He didn’t seem repulsed, just... straight-faced and a bit sad. “It’s dulled a bit, like feeling something through a callous.” 

Harry nodded, not taking his eyes off of them. He began to blink quickly, like he was just remembering himself. “Can I...” he said again. 

Draco found himself nodding. 

A warm hand brushed over Draco’s darkened skin. Over his lower back, he felt the startling shifts of soft hand passing over scar tissue to healthy skin and back to scar again. The healthy parts were electrified, breaking out in goose bumps from the gentle touch, and hairs stood on end. Draco had to suppress a shiver, so that he wouldn’t scare Harry off with any jerky movements. 

“I wish you didn’t have them,” Harry said, swiping his thumb over a healthy patch of skin. “But they don’t make you untouchable.” 

Fingers flitted over his mangled skin carefully, and thunder crashed again. Closer. The rain picked up, beating harder against the window. Harry’s fingers grazed over the top of his arse, before moving back upwards. 

“Can you feel any of that?” Harry asked quietly. 

“A little,” Draco answered. If it were all healthy skin, his body would’ve likely reacted to the touch much more embarrassingly. 

What were they doing? Draco would be hard-pressed to come up with an answer. 

This all seemed surreal—like he’d walked a hallway, turned a corner, and found himself in a completely different building. 

Harry Potter had touched him. 

Was still touching him. 

On the ugliest part of him. 

Harry’s hand stilled on his back. 

His other hand brushed over Draco’s jaw, gently turning Draco’s face towards him. Draco stiffened. 

And Harry’s lips pressed against the corner of Draco’s mouth. 

Draco opened it—his mouth—as if about to say something, but no sounds came out. (What could he possibly even _say_?) 

Harry’s hand moved up his jaw, to graze over his cheek, fingertips travelling over the shell of his ear. And Harry’s soft mouth lifted off, and landed again, just beneath Draco’s lower lip. 

Harry’s fingers laced through Draco’s hair, behind his ear, and his mouth travelled further, to the other corner of Draco’s lips. 

His after-drinking morning breath was not the greatest, Draco thought wildly. 

Harry pulled back, he removed his fingers from their position wrapped around strands of hair, and he removed the hand from Draco’s back. Leaning back, Draco found himself staring into Harry’s face—at a complete loss. Harry looked back—with an intensity that seem expectant. But... expectant of what? Everything about what’d just happened had been unexpected. And Draco didn’t know where to begin unpacking it. 

“I...” Harry started, breaking eye contact. Something had faltered. Something had gone wrong. 

And the room felt tense, as the space between them appeared to grow with each passing moment of silence. 

Harry had kissed _him_. And now had nothing to say, no words to explain himself, apparently. 

And Draco didn’t want to have to be the one to ask... to ask whether that’d been pity because of Draco’s scars, or if maybe Harry was still a little drunk from last night, or if Harry had planned that at all or if he’d just felt like it in a spur-of-the-moment thing. Or to ask how it was—how it’d felt (had that been good?), or what that was all for, or had Harry forgotten who Draco was for a moment. Or if perhaps he did that all the time, he kissed his friends... and to him it wasn’t a particularly special act. 

Draco, fool as he was, wearing only a towel that’d dipped low to show part of his arse, just sat frozen in this incomprehensible moment, as rain continued to beat against their window. 

He was far too naked for this. Too exposed already. 

And he didn’t want to be. He needed to be safe again, to be hidden where he felt protected. 

And not have Harry Potter making no sense. 

He should brush it off. 

Because learning that it wasn’t well-thought-out or that it was accidental or completely meaningless was not something he wanted to deal with. 

And Potter wasn’t talking. The man’s brow was furrowed up in confusion, as he stared at the duvet. 

Running off and pretending it was nothing would be easy. But did Draco want to be that person? Still? That person who guards his heart, who runs away the moment he’s truly vulnerable? No... he was beginning to realise. He didn’t want to hide away anymore. 

But why did the alternative have to be so difficult? 

“Why did you...” Draco managed. At least it was something. 

“Sorry,” Potter rushed to say. 

Sorry? That word meant it was an accident... a mistake. A pit dropped, heavy in his stomach. 

“I...” Potter continued, his words coming out fast. “I thought for a moment there that you wouldn’t mind but I was wrong. Sorry.” 

That word again. 

Potter hadn’t answered Draco’s question, not really. “But... _why_?” 

While finally making eye contact, Potter just sat there blinking at him. “I fancy you. I thought you knew?” 

A string of thoughts barraged Draco’s mind: from _what_ to _fuck off_ to _no you don’t_. 

“Why would I possibly think you _fancied me_?” he asked, because if there’d been clues he’d like to know. 

Potter blinked some more, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what Draco was asking. “I asked if you had a boyfriend?” 

“That’s a perfectly normal question, I’m sure.” Wasn’t it? Yes. He was sure of it. 

“I ask you to hang out with you near-constantly?” 

Well... that was just... Potter being overly friendly, wasn’t it? 

“I fell asleep on you?” Potter added. “I lent you my hoodie? I sat with you by the fire? We had a whole conversation about how Ron was afraid you might hurt me if you were my boyfriend and you assured me you would not?” 

“Hold on— _no_. That conversation was about how I might hurt you, like, _generally_.” Wasn’t it? This was all very... incomprehensible. Baffling. 

Harry shook his head. “I hadn’t thought so.” 

Draco was trying very hard to align this information with what he thought he knew about reality. 

“Sorry,” Harry said again. “I’m an idiot, right?” He smiled sadly at Draco, shrugging a shoulder just once. 

No— 

What? 

No. 

“You’re not,” Draco said in a rush. “You’re not... an idiot. You’re perfect.” 

Oh, fuck.

Harry’s mouth opened a fraction, and he furrowed his brow. Draco felt a mad urge to reach over and smooth away the wrinkles there. 

“I mean, you’re not _perfect_ -perfect. No one is, I suppose. But you’re...” Oh Merlin, what was he saying? Draco sighed. “Do you know why we’re rooming together?” 

Harry shook his head, all wide-eyed and fucking cute. 

“Because Pansy knows I fancy you, and knew I’d never do anything about it—because you’re much too good for me, and I’d never be able to make up for everything I’ve—” 

“You fancy me?” Harry interrupted. 

Draco pinched his mouth closed. And nodded. 

Harry _smiled_. His eyes crinkled in the corners. Like he was proper happy. 

“Are you quite certain _you_ fancy me?” Draco asked. “You’re not just having me on?” 

Harry laughed. “I’m extremely certain.” 

“Ah.” It didn’t make sense. Draco looked down at his lap, at his clasped hands there. He was going to need to think about this. “Can I... do you mind if I get dressed now?” 

“Sure,” said Harry. “And I’ll shower. You’ll wait for me? We’ll go down for breakfast?” 

“Yeah.” 

Harry grinned, and pulled himself out of bed, padding over to the washroom in only dark green boxer briefs. 

Draco exhaled slow. 

Okay. 

Time to get dressed. 

Since Harry was in the bathroom, he dressed quickly out in the open. Harry came out as Draco was just tugging a t-shirt into place. He was quick with his showers, evidently. And... Harry was dressed in a towel, smiling at Draco. 

He felt a furious blush coming on, and turned away to face the wall. Harry seemed to think nothing of that, moving over to his corner of the room. Draco was definitely not going to look. Instead he inspected the green wallpaper, and the little corner at the bottom of the seam, that’d got itself un-stuck. Wallpaper was nice, sure. Because of the wide variety of patterns. But paint was just tidier over time, wasn’t it? Although... paint could chip, come to think of it. 

“Did you have any plans for the day?” Harry asked. Draco could hear him shuffling around over there. Possibly nude. 

“No,” Draco managed to answer, clenching his fists. 

“Ah,” said Harry. “I wonder if it’ll rain all day. I s’pose we won’t be able to go outside.” 

“Perhaps not.” 

Harry shuffled some more, over there. 

If Draco had a house, what would he do with the walls? Paint? Wallpaper? A combination? 

“You can look. I’m done over here,” Harry said, sounding amused. 

Draco turned slowly, not quite sure if he should believe Harry. But, sure enough, Harry was wearing a faded grey t-shirt and jeans, just sitting on the edge of his bed, pulling on striped socks. 

“Do you want to borrow a hoodie again?” Harry asked, like it were no big deal. “The one from last night might smell like campfire, Firewhisky, and who knows what.” 

Draco licked at his bottom lip. “Yeah. I’ll borrow one.” 

He caught the edge of Harry’s mouth quirking up in profile, as Harry walked over to his mess of a suitcase, to rifle around in it. He pulled out two hoodies, extending the dark green one out towards Draco, and keeping the dark grey one for himself. Draco had to step closer to receive it, taking the soft fabric into his hand, thumbing at it as he brought it closer to his chest. They were close in each other’s proximity again. It was different now, the space between them charged with an energy he couldn’t quite name. 

So, Draco pulled the hoodie on. 

“I like...” Harry started, trailing off so quickly, while he shoved an arm through a sleeve himself. 

“Hmm?” Draco asked, adjusting the hoodie, getting it into the proper place. He looked at Harry, who looked back at him with mouth clamped shut, pulling on the other sleeve. 

Harry exhaled, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I like seeing you in my clothes. Is that stupid?” 

Draco let out a breathy laugh. “No. It’s not stupid.” Harry smiled a little. "And I like... wearing them,” Draco admitted, with a shrug. 

Harry’s smile widened. “I... Well, last night. Just seeing you in my hoodie...” 

“Yeah?” 

“I just wanted to...” 

Oh God. 

_What_ , though? 

“I wanted to hug you.” 

Draco let out another breathy laugh. “Ah.” He hesitated. “I suppose... we could, though?” 

Harry nodded. “We could,” he echoed, smiling slightly, but making no moves to do so. 

Draco licked at his bottom lip again. He was off-kilter. He didn’t know the first thing about any of this. Their relationship (undefined as it was) felt fragile, like it might snap apart with any sudden movements. 

He couldn’t keep playing it safe though, right? Besides... Harry knew him. Knew all the awful parts of him, he’d experienced them first hand. He’d been at the mercy of them, time and time again. And it’d never really broke him—never pushed him away for good. And now... now, despite everything, Harry claimed to _like_ him. Like... actually like him. Romantically. It defied logic, yes. But... maybe Draco didn’t need to tread too carefully. 

So... so Draco slid his hands in that space between Harry’s elbows and his torso, over his waist. Harry wasted no time in wrapping his arms around Draco’s shoulders, pulling him in quickly, flush against Harry. Harry buried his head in the crook of Draco’s neck, breathing in. 

Merlin. Harry was so bloody warm. And Draco could feel Harry’s heart hammering, which was a comfort. It wasn’t just him, then. They were both... nervous? Was that the right word? 

And Harry smelled... he smelled like Harry. Like warmth. 

It actually felt... right. And comfortable. Despite whatever he might’ve predicted. 

Harry pulled back, to look at Draco’s face, so close. 

Draco could smell the mint off his breath. He’d brushed his teeth, then. 

Harry moved a hand to tuck a strand of Draco’s hair behind his ear. Like they were that familiar with each other. Tender... _already_. Like it were easy. Like it came naturally. The very concept did something to Draco—it was... fluttery. And Harry was just there, inches away, searching Draco's eyes, looking for some answer there. And Draco didn’t know what he was asking... so he leaned in, and pressed his mouth against Harry’s. 

They were kissing. 

Just barely. Just soft, dry lips, and slow pecks. 

They were _kissing_ , though. 

He was kissing Harry Potter. 

He’d wanted to... for a long while. Longer than he’d known. 

Draco fisted at the back of Harry’s hoodie. 

Soft puffs of Harry’s breath flitted over Draco’s cheek. 

And their mouths were _touching_. 

Merlin... Draco wasn’t going to get over that for a long while. 

And he liked it. Loved it, even. 

Draco really, really loved kissing Harry. 

It did things to him. Made him all tingly and floaty and impossibly warm in his chest and— 

Harry broke away, sucking his lower lip into his mouth, as a smile began to grow. 

Draco just looked at him, marvelling at every small movement on Harry's face.

“That was...” Harry said. 

Draco nodded. It was. 

“I _am_ hungry, though. And I think they stop serving breakfast soon.” Harry winced, looking apologetic.

“Oh.” Breakfast. Sure. Snogging wasn’t the most important thing in the world, then. Regretfully eating once and a while was necessary... to stay alive and all that. “Right. Okay.” 

“We could...” Harry licked his lips, Draco watched. “We could do some more of that later, though.” 

Draco couldn’t help a smile from forming. “Yeah?” 

Harry mirrored it. “Yeah.” 

So they went down to get bloody breakfast. And Harry reached for his hand in the elevator. And Draco couldn’t stop smiling. He’d turned into a sap, seemingly overnight. 

They settled into a two-person table together. A waiter came over to take their orders. Draco still couldn’t stop smiling. He kept trying not to... but it wasn't working.

 _They’d kissed_. 

Then, Pansy sauntered over to the table. He hadn’t even noticed her when they came in. But there she was, looking a bit worse-for-wear, with darkness under her eyes and a plain oversized t-shirt paired with leggings. “Good morning,” she croaked, looking intently from Draco’s face to Harry's. “I see that my work is done here.” 

Well that’s a ridiculous thing to proclaim. Draco opened his mouth to argue. 

Harry beat him to it. “Thank you,” he said, smiling. “If it wasn’t for you—” 

“I don’t think we should encourage her, Potter.” If they did, she’d keep doing it to other people. 

“ _Harry_ ,” Harry corrected. 

“You’re Harry only when I’m agreeing with you,” Draco pointed out. 

“Oh, so you don’t agree that Pansy did us a favour?” Harry lifted an eyebrow. 

Draco frowned. And Pansy seemed very pleased with herself. Was Harry going to be like this as a boyfriend, then? All contrarian. Wait... did he just think ‘ _boyfriend_ ’? A tiny smile was forming on Harry’s lips. Draco suppressed a groan, because Harry was cute and Draco had to admit... had to admit that them rooming together had likely been the catalyst that brought about... well, whatever their relationship was. He turned towards Pansy. “Alright. I’ll admit that—in the end—the whole room-switch scheme did turn out—” He paused to sigh. “—Turned out favourably. For all parties.” 

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes. You’re both very _welcome_." 

Harry shot Draco a look. 

He bit back a sigh. “ _Thank you_.” 

Pansy grinned, and wrapped his head up in a hug, kissing the top of his hair. 

“Release me,” he mumbled, patting at her side fondly. 

She did, and she turned to go back to her table, but not before ruffling his hair. 

Working to smooth it, he said, “You really shouldn’t encourage her. She’ll keep doing it—meddling in other people’s lives.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing? At least... sometimes?” 

Draco shrugged, and had a look around the room. It seemed dimmed, perhaps due to the grey skies and rain beating down against the window. There weren’t many people around... Just Pansy and Blaise sitting quietly at a table—Blaise caught his eye and winked. Finnegan and Thomas were at another table, hand-in-hand, and lost in their own world. And there were a handful of Muggles around. He even spotted the elderly couple he’d briefly chatted with on the first morning of their trip. The husband was sipping at his tea, while his wife looked to be prattling on about something. 

He turned back to Harry, and reached out for his hand. Harry put his hand in his, fingers to palm. 

The waiter came with their orders, setting the plates down in front of them. And Harry did not pull his hand away, not even when he looked up to thank the waiter.

~~

After breakfast, they went back up to their room.

Draco sat on the edge of his bed, as Harry went over to rifle through his bag. “I s’pose you’ll want to swim today? That’s likely the only activity you can do, on account of the rain.” 

Harry huffed. “I don’t know where you got this idea that I have to be doing something sporty at all times.” 

“You’re a Gryffindor and you’re Harry Potter. You ride Hippogriffs, play Quidditch, and rescue dragons from banks—” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Not _lately_.” 

“Yes, and lately you like swimming, apparently.” 

Harry sighed, heavy. “Maybe. Or maybe I pushed it on you so much because I wanted to be in a closed room, wearing nearly nothing, and getting _wet_. With you.” 

Well... he didn’t know what to say to that. 

So, Draco went for clarification, “Are you telling me, Harry Potter, that your motivations towards swimming were perverted in nature?” 

Harry laughed. “Might’ve been.” 

Yes. He didn’t know what to say about that. 

“Anyway,” Harry said, pulling something from his suitcase. “I got this yesterday—from the gift shop—when you’d said you just wanted to read, and when I asked to join you, you’d asked if I had a book.” 

Draco blinked over at him, realising—after a delay—that there was a small paperback in Harry’s hand. “A book?” he echoed. 

Harry grinned. “Yes! It’s called ‘The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency’. I’m liking it so far,” he said as he flipped it open to look at the last page he’d read. 

Draco licked at his bottom lip. “You bought a book... to spend time reading it... with me?” 

Harry looked up from that book, still with that happy grin on his face. “Yeah.” 

“Harry...” 

His grin fell. “What?” 

“That’s the sweetest...” Draco swallowed. “Kindest thing.” 

Harry shrugged. “No big deal, really.” 

“It _is_.” Harry didn’t understand— 

He’d gone out of his way, and he’d even started to read it. 

And Draco had been pushing him away the whole trip. “You did this thoughtful thing,” Draco said. “And I didn’t even notice that you wanted to spend time with me.” 

Harry shrugged again. 

“What if I keep doing that? Not noticing?” Draco wondered aloud, as his heartrate picked up. “You do nice things, and I just go about my day, completely oblivious. You’ll tire of it... or worse, I’d hurt you by keeping that up—” 

“Hey,” Harry interrupted, getting up to sit beside Draco on the bed. “Nothing’s gone wrong, yeah?” 

Draco pinched his mouth shut, but had to agree. He nodded, somewhat reluctantly. 

“ _If_ —and I mean a big _if_ —any of what you’re worrying about right now happens,” Harry said, leaning his head on Draco’s shoulder. “Then I’ll tell you, okay? We’ll communicate and we’ll work it out. Together.” 

“Yeah?” 

Harry let out a breathy laugh, and turned his face to Draco’s shoulder, planting a kiss there, over the fabric. “Yeah. We’re bound to fuck up sometimes. Both of us.” 

“Hmm.” 

“And we’ll just talk about it, and it’ll get sorted.” 

“Sounds so simple.” 

Harry took Draco’s head in his hands, and tilted Draco’s face towards him. He looked pretty confident about it all. “It doesn’t need to be complicated.” 

Draco huffed a laugh. “Alright. I’ll keep that in—” 

Harry kissed him. 

And Draco forgot everything, because Harry’s lips were back on his. 

Harry pulled back slightly, his eyes were lidded. “We could stay in here today,” Harry murmured. “We could just snog all day.” 

“Fine by me.”

~~

That evening, they curled up on the floor, to watch a film. It was just like when they watched Mulan—dressed in their pants and t-shirts and wrapped up in blankets. Except, this time, Harry was actively cuddling him. So, it was even better.

Harry used the controller thing to put on something called ‘Good Will Hunting’ on the ‘pay per view’. Harry had heard of the movie before, apparently. It wasn’t moving drawings this time, rather it was real people. The film looked like normal photographs, except better because they didn’t just loop the same scene over and over, and the film had sound. It was just as fascinating as Mulan, only in a different way. 

“This is my favourite thing to do,” said Harry, with his head on Draco’s shoulder. 

“Watch films?” 

“No, well... yeah. But watch them with you.” 

Draco laughed breathily. “But this is only the second time.” 

“I know, but... it’s my favourite thing.” 

Draco tore his eyes from the screen, and turned to face Harry—who looked back at him so earnestly and warmly, with eyes bright. Draco pressed what was meant to be a quick kiss against Harry’s mouth, but Harry took hold of the sides of his face, and kept him there, swiping his tongue against Draco’s. 

He felt himself melt into it. Sod the film. For the moment, anyway. Harry’s mouth was more important. 

Harry’s mouth was Draco’s favourite thing. Well, all of him was, actually. 

They snogged, and Harry broke off to run kisses down Draco’s chin, and along his jawline, then down his neck. Harry licked and sucked at Draco’s neck, and it sent something through him... some electricity, some wondrous feeling. 

Draco moved his hand, carefully— _tentatively_ —from his own lap to Harry’s. The bare thigh was warm, Harry's skin so soft. Draco moved the pad of his thumb over it, slowly, feeling every fine hair. 

It was even better than he'd imagined.

And Harry’s tongue was a gift, against Draco’s neck. A marvel. A hot, warm, sexy— 

“You’re hard,” Harry said breathily, breaking off from Draco’s neck to eye the way the blanket lifted up around Draco’s lap. 

Draco's hand on Harry’s thigh stilled, and he looked down at his own lap. “Well you keep kissing my neck,” he said defensively. Anyone would be hard, with the sexiest-man-alive’s tongue on their neck. 

“Can I... see?” Harry asked under his breath. 

Draco blinked at him, not comprehending for a moment. Harry looked flushed and nervous and daring, all at once. Hungry, even? Without a word, Draco unfolded the blanket around himself, revealing his tented boxers. 

Harry licked his bottom lip, then bit it, staring at Draco’s crotch with hitched breath. “I mean... can I _see_?” 

Draco found himself blinking again, and whispered, “...My cock?” 

Harry tore his eyes away, instead looking at Draco’s face, with an air of hesitation. He nodded. “Only if you...” 

Without overthinking it, Draco moved the waistband of his pants down to the base of his cock, exposing it to the air and pinning it against his stomach. 

Harry sucked in a breath, and immediately returned to sucking on Draco’s neck with increased fervour, nibbling on Draco’s earlobe, and kissing behind his ear. All while pausing here and there to have a peek at Draco’s lap. 

Draco tried, and failed, to continue watching the film. Nothing was sinking in. All that existed was Harry Potter, and him, thighs, an exposed cock, and wherever the hell this make-out session was headed towards. 

“Do you think that...” Harry began, his voice sounding husky. He licked his lips. “Can I touch you?” 

Draco wanted to remember that, remember those four words later. “Yes.” 

Harry leaned in to kiss Draco’s mouth, as his hand moved up Draco’s inner thigh. Slowly. Too slowly. It passed over the fabric of his boxers, before shifting course and lightly grazing over the fabric over Draco’s bollocks. Draco sucked in a breath. _’Yes,’_ echoed in his thoughts. 

Harry broke off from the kiss, only to look down at what his hand was going to do. Draco followed suit—he wanted to see Harry’s hand on his cock. Wanted to watch. 

Harry’s fingers loosely wrapped around the base. The pad of his thumb brushed up the underside. Lightly. Too lightly. He was on fire, he needed to be touched _more_. 

“Please,” escaped Draco’s mouth. 

And Harry—the absolute imp—he smirked. “Please, what?” And he let his thumb still in its movements. 

“Grip me,” Draco breathed. “Stroke.” 

Harry bit his lip, saying simply, “Okay.” And he did—he wrapped his fingers around him properly, and he stroked, thumbing over the tip. 

Draco let out a shaky breath, arching up involuntarily. “ _Harry_.” 

“Mm,” Harry said, capturing Draco’s mouth in his, as his hand stroked. He broke away to murmur against Draco’s lips, “You’re so bloody sexy.” 

Draco grabbed Harry’s head, burying his fingers in those curls, and kissed Harry deep—with tongue. Sloppy, messy, perfect. 

It was so good. Harry’s hand— 

_So good._

He opened his eyes. 

And broke away from Harry’s mouth. 

“Should I?” he asked. “Should I touch you too?” 

“If you want,” Harry answered, before capturing Draco’s mouth again. 

Draco’s eyelashes fluttered closed. Then he opened them again, and broke away. 

“I want to,” he said decidedly, and pawed at the blanket that was still wrapped around Harry’s waist. Harry’s hand—regrettably—left Draco’s cock, and he helped to free himself, removing the blanket and then pushing his boxer briefs down. 

And there it was, in the light of the television—Harry's perfect cock, hard and leaking because of _Draco_. 

“Fuck,” Draco whispered. 

Harry laughed under his breath, and resumed touching Draco, nuzzling at his jaw—planting kisses there. 

Draco reached out, brushed the pad of his thumb over the tip, smeared pre-cum around it. 

“ _Touch me_ ,” Harry breathed into Draco’s neck. “Properly. I won’t last much longer.” 

“Me neither,” Draco admitted, and began to tentatively stroke, touching Harry like he’d touch himself. The skin was so soft. Softness over hardness. 

Harry _moaned_ into Draco’s neck, panting, speeding up his hand movements. 

God. Draco was on fire, he could feel his blood pumping— _everywhere_ —and this was better than he could’ve ever imagined. 

The pressure was mounting— 

They gasped each other’s given names. 

"Harry!"

"Draco—"

Harry’s open mouth found Draco’s open mouth, they tongued at each other franticly, and Draco came into Harry’s hand—crying out into Harry’s mouth. Harry followed suit a beat after, filling Draco’s hand, and splattering his t-shirt with ejaculate. 

It was bliss. 

He was floating. He must be. 

Their kisses became softer, lazier, and Harry broke away to look at him, with heavily-lidded eyes. 

“How was that?” Harry asked breathily. 

Draco had to laugh. “Brilliant. Wasn’t it obvious?” 

“Mm,” Harry said, smiling, and then planting a peck on his mouth. 

“And for you?” 

A lazy grin grew on Harry’s mouth. “Brilliant,” he agreed. 

“But now we’re covered in semen and can’t do a Scourgify,” Draco pointed out. 

Harry looked down at them, as if he was only just noticing the mess they’d made. “Ah. Tissues then.” He propped up an elbow on the bed to leverage himself up into a standing position. His softening cock just hung there, over top his pushed-down boxer-briefs. 

Draco sucked in a breath. 

Harry grabbed the box of tissues from the nightstand and brought it over to the both of them, sinking down to the floor once again. 

They scrubbed at their hands with the tissues, dabbed at t-shirts, and then Harry cleaned the tip of his soft cock off, holding it in his hands, looking down with a concentrated expression on his face. It was such an intimate thing to witness—private and somehow erotic. 

Harry looked up to find Draco watching, and a smile grew on his face. “I think we missed most of the film.” 

It was still playing in the background, soft voices and a car running. Draco hadn’t been paying attention. “Yeah,” he said softly. 

“Here, give me your tissues,” Harry said, grabbing them from Draco’s hand without waiting for a response, and then he climbed up again and padded into the washroom. 

The sink ran. 

Yeah, Draco should wash his hands too. He pushed himself up—which took an effort. He was absolutely boneless. 

He tucked himself back into his boxers, and trailed in after Harry. 

There he was—just washing his hands. Harry’s eyes met Draco’s in the mirror, and he smiled. Draco came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist, and pressing his cheek to Harry’s shoulder blade. 

Harry still smelled so good, and felt so warm. 

“Can I sleep in your bed with you?” Harry asked. 

Draco pulled out of the embrace, locking eyes with Harry in the mirror again. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.” 

Harry smiled, biting at his bottom lip, and nodded. Then he put toothpaste onto his toothbrush and began to brush. While Harry did that, Draco washed his hands in the sink. 

After towelling off, he moved to brush his teeth as well. 

Harry caught his eye in the mirror again, smiling around his toothbrush, with a little toothpaste dribbling out down his chin. Draco bumped his hip against Harry’s—he didn’t know why. It’d just seemed the thing to do. 

Merlin… they’d touched each other, _intimately_ , and everything still felt so comfortable between them. Not at all awkward. 

Once ready for bed, they shut off the television and pulled their still slightly-wet and soon-to-be-a-bit-crusty t-shirts off, before tumbling into Draco’s bed, wearing only their pants. 

Harry quickly nestled into the crook under Draco’s arm, splaying himself—and his warm, bare skin—half across Draco’s body. Draco wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. 

And they fell into an easy sleep—the best sleep Draco'd had in years probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, one more chapter to go! ❤️ And feedback is welcome (e.g. did they move too fast?)


	5. Chapter 5

Draco woke up in a tangle of sheets and limbs, with Harry’s face buried in his neck. He stretched carefully, mindful not to be too disruptive, and Harry made a soft little sigh into his skin. 

Draco brushed his fingertips over Harry’s bicep—he had a tiny raised bit of skin on the back of his arm, near the armpit. A mole perhaps? He turned his head to bury his nose in Harry’s inky black curls, and kissed gently. 

“Mm,” Harry uttered. He stretched and tilted his head up, pressing his dry lips to Draco’s. “Sleep good?” he asked as he leaned back to get a bleary look at Draco’s face. 

“Yeah, you?” 

Fuck, Harry was unbelievably cute first thing in the morning, squinting at him. 

“Yeah,” he echoed. 

Draco leaned in to kiss him some more, wrapping him more tightly into his arms. Harry allowed it—just melted into it. 

Harry broke away, and propped himself up on an elbow to look down at Draco. He tucked a strand of hair behind Draco’s ear and said, “You have beautiful eyes.” 

Draco let out a surprised laugh. Fuck it, he was happy. He looked up into Harry’s earnest green ones, and said, “Says the man with absolute emeralds for eyes.” 

A small smile grew on Harry’s sleepy lips. “Yours are like grey glass. Almost transparent.” 

Draco huffed a laugh. “Yeah?” 

Harry nodded with that tiny smile—happy with his description. 

Draco pushed himself up to kiss Harry’s lips again. 

“Mm,” Harry said. “We have to go back today.” 

“Yeah.” Merlin, Draco didn’t even want to. At the beginning of the trip, he was looking to get out of it. Now… now he was allowed to kiss Harry and sleep in his arms and Draco didn’t want that to have to end. Tonight, he’d be back in his bed… in the Slytherin dorms, way too far away from Harry. 

“Will you start eating with me at meals?” 

Draco couldn’t hold back a smile if he tried. “Yeah? What, at your table or mine?” 

Harry shrugged a shoulder. “Either, or both. We could take turns.” 

He nodded. “I’d like that.” 

Harry leant down and kissed Draco again. Salazar, it was wonderful to be kissed so much. Harry broke away to say, “We should go to your bench on the hiking trail one more time.” 

He quirked an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“Because it’s your spot, and we should show the trees how far we’ve come.” 

Draco laughed breathily. “That’s a bit weird, Potter.” 

“ _Harry_.” 

Draco smirked. “Sure, we can go. If it isn’t raining again.” 

So, after breakfast, they set out to walk the hiking trail under a blue, cloudless sky. The ground was all muddy, on account of the rain from the day before, and the leaves on the ground held little pools of water in their centres. But the autumn colours seemed more vibrant—bright reds, golds, oranges. And there was no breeze, the forest felt still. 

It was nice, yes, but... so muddy. 

“We should turn back,” Draco said, stopping in his tracks to look at the underside of his shoes. 

“It’s just a little mud,” Harry said, stopping a beat after Draco and spinning around. 

“Yeah, well, the ‘little mud’ is absolutely going to ruin these shoes.” 

“So?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you wear trainers before this week, so what do you care? Would you ever even wear them again?” 

Draco defiantly said, “I might.” 

Harry seemed doubtful. “You can just Scourgify them when we get back.” He flashed a smile and spun around to continue on the path, with or without Draco. 

Sighing, Draco hurried along to catch up, and reached for Harry’s hand. Harry tossed him a glance, still smiling. 

The air was quite nice and fresh, Draco had to admit. After being stuck inside for one day, it was good to stretch his legs and admire the scenery one more time before they had to go. Not that being stuck inside was bad, of course. It'd involved snogging with Harry, amongst other things. But... outside was nice too. They could still snog outside, he supposed. 

The birds also seemed pretty cheerful at the change in weather—the sky was filled with their chatter. 

Well, Draco thought all this, at least, until his trainer got stuck in a patch of thick mud, and did not travel with his foot. 

Before Draco could stop himself, his white-socked foot was in the mud. 

He froze, and Harry tried to keep going, pulled back by Draco’s hand in his. 

“Oh bloody fucking—” 

“Hmm?” Harry whipped around, and immediately started laughing. 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Seriously? _Help me_ , Harry!” 

Harry dropped Draco’s hand and doubled over, holding his knees. 

“My foot is in the mud!” 

Harry laughed—the absolute prat. 

“This was a terrible mistake.” 

Harry let out a satisfied sigh, after having enjoyed his laugh, and just grinned at Draco. “Alright, alright, just a second,” he said brightly, and went to wrestle Draco’s shoe out of the mud behind him. 

He undid the laces for Draco and tossed it down beside Draco’s socked foot. 

Draco groaned. “Am I supposed to just put my muddy sock in there?” 

Harry smiled, all-too-amused, and shrugged. “You can take it off and go barefoot. Or, I don’t know, want to borrow one of mine?” 

After letting out a long-suffering sigh, Draco said, “No. Thank you. I’ll just take off the sock.” He sighed again. “Come here, I need your shoulder for balance.” 

Grumbling, Draco removed his sock, and stuck his bare foot in his shoe. 

Chuckling, Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s shoulders and kissed him. That… made Draco feel slightly better. 

Harry broke away from the kiss and knelt down. “Here, let me help you, darling,” Harry said, smirking good-naturedly, and then tied up Draco’s laces into a bow. “Alright?” he asked straightening up again. 

“Yeah.” 

“Onwards, then.” Harry reached for Draco’s hand, and set off walking again. 

Draco grunted, but followed suit.

It felt weird to walk with only one sock on, but… it was okay, he supposed. Since Harry was with him. 

Draco watched the muddy ground carefully as he walked, looking out for any more particularly muddy bits, when Harry stopped abruptly. Had he lost his shoe too? Draco looked, and, no... 

So, Draco glanced up, to find Blaise—his Blaise—pressing one Ronald Weasley up against a tree. Snogging him. 

A choking sound escaped Draco’s lips, before he could help it. 

And evidently, they’d heard him, because the two of them broke apart like they’d been caught out (which, they had) and looked back. Weasley seemed absolutely horrified to’ve been caught by Draco and Harry—his face turned a very unflattering shade of scarlet, a colour that clashed with his bright orange hair. Blaise, on the other hand, looked very suave and pleased with himself, smiling over at Draco. 

“Well… hello,” said Harry. 

“Hello Potter,” answered Blaise, nodding. “Draco. Having a nice stroll?” 

Weasley seemed horrified by the attempt at pleasantries. 

Draco nodded, collecting himself after that surprise. “Very nice, except I muddied my sock,” he said, spinning his muddy sock around in his hand. 

“Ah, a pity,” said Blaise, looking very much like it wasn’t. 

“Well, we’ll just be…" started Harry. 

“Continuing our walk,” Draco helpfully finished for him. 

“Have a good one,” said Blaise, nodding. 

Weasley was now hiding his red face in his hands. 

So, Harry and Draco went on, and Harry burst out laughing once they’d gotten out of earshot. Draco couldn’t help but smile at Harry’s amusement. 

“That was... unexpected,” Draco said. 

Harry rubbed his free hand over his face. When Draco glanced at him—he still looked amused. 

“I knew they were talking a lot this week, so I wondered,” Harry admitted. 

“But... I thought... Weasley and Granger?” 

“Ah... no. She broke it off this past summer.” He exhaled slow. "They were fighting all the time... it just... wasn't working."

“Wow. Okay. Huh. Weird.” 

Harry let go of Draco’s hand, instead throwing his arm around Draco’s shoulder. The bench was in sight. 

They strode over to it, and settled down, side-by-side. Draco looked around. He _had_ done a lot of deep thinking there in the last few days. It was nice to be back for one last time. 

“Draco?” 

He loved hearing his given name from Harry’s mouth. “Yes?” 

“I’m really glad we got to properly talk on this trip. And I'm glad we got to know each other better. You really... you really opened up to me and I know that couldn’t have been easy. So, I’m grateful and I... I really like spending time with you. And I really... I really like you a lot.” 

That was a lot of 'really's.

Draco blinked at him, unsure of where this was going. “I like you a lot, too, Harry.” 

A slow smile grew on one side of Harry’s mouth. “So I was wondering if... will you officially be my boyfriend?” 

Draco let out another breathy laugh. Salazar, he was definitely happy. “Of course. Merlin. Fuck yes.” Boyfriends? Official? 

With the trees as their witness, Harry smiled and leaned in to kiss him, reaching for both of Draco’s hands at the same time. 

Draco was never going to get enough of Harry’s mouth.

~~

And so the field trip came to an end. Harry and Draco went back to their rooms, Draco changed into fresh socks and they packed up their things before meeting everyone down in the lobby. Harry held both of their suitcases so that Draco could carry his ridiculous pumpkin.

“What are you going to do with that thing, anyway?” Harry asked, eyeing it, as everyone loitered around waiting for Flitwick to be done checking them all out at the front desk. 

Draco exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Harry. Give it to the kitchens? Maybe the house elves can make a pie out of it.” 

Harry smiled, just as Professor Flitwick announced it was time to follow him outside. 

Once again, they wound through the vehicles in the parking lot, and found the entrance to the path that would take them to the little private clearing. 

Draco looked around, and his eye caught on Weasley’s wild orange hair, and Blaise’s short black hair, side-by-side. Draco shook his head; it still seemed a bit weird. Weasley and Granger had seemed a sure thing—not so different from Harry and the Weaslette, come to think of it. Well... people could surprise you, he supposed. 

In the clearing, Draco remembered fondly that initial calm he’d felt when they’d landed there. It'd been like a premonition for what was to come—essentially the best trip of his life, actually. Even better than the Paris vacation with his parents when he was ten. 

The class separated into small groups, huddling around various Portkeys that Flitwick produced from a cloth bag. This time Pansy, Harry, and Draco shared one—a toy horse with pink plastic hair.

Pansy looked up at them both, still seemingly quite pleased with herself. 

“Good trip, gentleman?” she asked knowingly. 

“Very,” Harry said emphatically, smiling at Draco—either oblivious or wilfully ignoring Pansy’s smug attitude. 

Draco sighed, and, chose to admit, “Yes.” Because he loved her, and she might’ve helped him get Harry for a boyfriend. 

Flitwick counted down, and there was that unpleasant tug in his navel. 

Ah. And there they were, back at Hogwarts, back in the courtyard. When he’d left it, he’d been a bit of a mess, to be honest with himself. Lonely, depressed, and self-isolating. Now... now he was coming back after having been to a party. And, most importantly, he’d come back with Harry Potter as his boyfriend. It still seemed surreal. Granted, it’d only been a few hours official. 

Harry trailed after Draco and the rest of the Slytherins—walking Draco to the dungeons since he had Draco’s suitcase and Draco had the blasted, heavy pumpkin. They fell behind everyone, in less of a hurry to get to their dormitories than the others, apparently. 

At the secret entrance, Draco whispered the password, and set the pumpkin down on the hallway floor. He took the suitcase out of Harry’s hand and tossed it inside, and then picked up the pumpkin again. It was stupid. 

“I’d ask you inside,” Draco said, “But no one besides Slytherins have been in our common room, and, well... I wouldn’t want to be the one to break centuries of tradition.” 

“Right,” Harry said, with a funny smile. “Well. All set, then?” 

Draco nodded curtly, though he didn’t really want to leave Harry so soon. 

Harry leaned in to kiss Draco goodbye. “See you in the Great Hall,” he murmured near Draco’s lips. Then he winked, and marched off to put his own stuff away in Gryffindor Tower.

~~

So, back in their Slytherin uniforms, Pansy, Blaise and Draco walked up together. It all seemed a bit warped—the same, yet completely different. Better, yes. Much better than the last time Draco had walked to the Great Hall.

“So, Harry asked me to sit with him at meals,” Draco said, conversationally. 

“Ah. Well I may as well join you, then, and sit with my boyfriend too,” said Blaise, with a self-satisfied smile. 

“Where’s my Gryffindor?” Pansy pouted. 

Draco laughed, and threw an arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know, but you can sit with us.” 

She sighed. “ _Fine_.” 

So the three of them approached the Gryffindor table, where the Golden Trio were already sitting. Harry looked up and beamed at him as they approached. It nearly made Draco forget to breathe. 

They settled into the bench, and Draco caught a weird moment of seeing Granger staring at Pansy from underneath her eyelashes. And it wasn’t a stare of disdain or disgust. It almost seemed... like she was checking Pansy out. Interesting. 

A cleared-throat brought Draco out of his speculations. 

“Malfoy, can I talk to you?” Weasley asked, leaning forward, with his mouth set in a firm line. 

Draco exchanged a look with Harry—and Harry's expression said ‘good luck’. He turned back to Weasley and nodded, albeit reluctantly. Weasley tilted his head back towards the doors Draco had just walked through. Bit annoying to have to get up immediately after having sat down, but, whatever. Fine. When Harry’s your boyfriend, putting up with his Gryffindors was something that came along with the package, he supposed. And it’d all be worth it. 

The two of them climbed out of the bench and slipped out, just outside of the Great Hall doors. 

Weasley looked around and, seeing that they were alone, breathed in deep. “Okay, so, don’t hurt Harry, alright? He’s more fragile than he lets on. He’s lost a lot of people over the years... and his childhood wasn’t great.” 

“I know,” Draco answered quickly. “Yeah, I don’t want to hurt him. He’s...” Draco took a breath—he couldn’t believe he was saying this to Weasley, but it was unavoidable, probably. “He’s the best thing, the best thing there is. I would never want to... hurt him,” he finished, and hoped Weasley believed him. 

Weasley let out a breath, possibly in relief. “Good. Great.” 

Draco hesitated, and then bumped Weasley’s shoulder lightly with his fist. “And, you know, ditto the obligatory don’t-hurt-my-friend-or-else. About Blaise. He’s a good man.” 

Weasley’s cheeks went an unflattering scarlet again. “Yeah,” he fumbled to say. “I mean, I don’t want to hurt him.” 

Draco bit at his bottom lip, and then nodded slowly. 

“Alright, that’s done. I think we can go back inside now,” Weasley said, still furiously blushing, and darting his eyes towards the door. 

Draco smirked. “Sure.” 

And so they all ate at the Gryffindor table, and no one got in a fight or anything. It was pleasant, actually. Harry kept shooting Draco these soft, smiling glances. 

At the end of it, Harry whispered, “Can I see you tonight?” 

Draco sucked in a breath. “Yeah, of course.” 

Harry grinned in response. “Brilliant. I’ll... I’ll send a Patronus when I’m ready to meet.” 

Draco blinked at him. “Er, okay.”

~~

And so, even though Harry had warned him, Harry’s Patronus startled the shit out of him later that evening. There he’d been, sitting on his bed, reading his book and waiting for Harry, when a giant wispy-white stag suddenly came charging at him.

“Fuck,” he said, clutching his chest, and glaring at the thing. 

Out in the hallway, he said, “That is a very disorienting way to be reached, Harry. I nearly had a heart attack. Out of the blue a giant animal, that has no natural reason for being in the air, just charging at me, _full speed_ —” 

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s shoulders. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and leaned in to press their mouths together. 

Draco forgot what he was saying, when Harry’s tongue flicked into his mouth. “Mm.” 

Harry broke away, peppering Draco’s lips with pecks. “I missed you.” 

A laugh escaped it. “It hasn’t been long—” 

“ _Still_.” Harry smiled. And then kissed him once more. “Okay I’ve got a question for you. And feel free to say ‘no’ if it makes you uncomfortable at all.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going. Unless it was a sexual thing, because in that case it’d be a definite ‘yes’ from him. 

“Would you go inside the Room of Requirement? It’s fixed up. It’s totally cosy and nice inside, and there’s a couch. And it’s private.” 

Ah. So, not explicitly sexual, then. But he didn’t mind the idea of a sofa, and being on one. That is, in a private room. With Harry. 

He nodded slowly. “I suppose...” 

“Honestly, if you never want to go back there, I’d completely understand.” 

“It’s... okay, I think.” Wasn’t it? Maybe. 

Harry licked at his bottom lip. “Yeah? I don’t know, we could... see how you feel, right?” 

Draco nodded. Seemed reasonable. 

Harry smiled, and took Draco’s hand as they set off—walking through the dungeon corridors before making the climb up all those sets of stairs. It was a path he'd taken many times... to a place that held terrible, shameful memories. But, maybe, he could make one good one there. 

“If you want to, I don’t know, you could close your eyes?” Harry asked, as they approached. 

Draco took in a breath, and made an inventory of how he felt. “I think... I’m okay.” It was a bit surprising to realise. He felt safe with Harry—he always felt safe with Harry. 

Harry squeezed his hand, just once. And, to the wall, Harry said, “I need to see the movie room.” 

“Movie room?” Draco echoed, surprised. 

Harry shot him a smile. “Apparently Hogwarts didn’t mind making one for us.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that. 

A door appeared, and Harry opened it. Draco trailed in after him, still holding his hand. Possibly a little tighter than he had a moment earlier. 

He looked around in awe—it looked a bit Gryffindor-ish, in maroon and gold furnishings. But it was small, and like Harry said: cosy. And it smelled pleasant—like lavender. There was a large television set up on the wall, and a big, plush maroon sofa with sparkling gold pillows across from it, along with a coffee table adorned with bowls of popcorn, candy, and other various snacks. And that was it, so, definitely small. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asked. 

“Yes.” Yes, he actually was. 

Harry dropped Draco’s hand after giving it one squeeze, and moved to sit on the sofa, bouncing a little in place. “Sit with me.” 

Right. Okay. He sat down, and Harry shifted closer, so that they were flush against each other. 

“Do you like it?” Harry asked. 

He nodded, and felt a smile growing. “It’s nice. Little too Gryffindor for my tastes, though.” 

Harry huffed a laugh. “That’s fair.” He leaned his head on Draco’s shoulder. “I wanted something comfortable... and I think that when I imagine 'comfortable'—my mind automatically goes to the Gryffindor common room. 

Draco nodded, and then he looked up at the television. “And we can actually watch a film in here? Muggle technology will work?” 

“Yeah, I tested it out after dinner. I mean... it’s not pure Muggle, there’s definitely some magic going on to allow it to work.” Harry reached for Draco’s hand, which had been resting on his lap. “So...” he started, moving their joined hands onto Harry’s lap instead. “Remember how we couldn’t pay attention to the movie last time?” 

A laugh escaped him. “I... remember.” 

“Should we, I don’t know, do that stuff first then, so we can concentrate later? That is, if you want? It’s just a thought, though.” 

Oh, Merlin. Just the very suggestion got Draco’s heartrate going. Blood was... definitely pumping. He licked at his bottom lip. “Well... it certainly wouldn’t be comfortable watching a film in our school uniforms, now would it?” 

Harry nodded sagely. “We should definitely remove some clothes. For comfort.” 

Harry shuffled in his seat, to face Draco on an angle, and reached for Draco’s tie. Draco did the same, taking a strange pleasure in un-Gryffindor-ising Harry. 

Draco leaned in to kiss Harry, as he pulled that awful tie off and tossed it aside. Harry melted into it, with hands travelling over him, tugging at the clasp of his robes, undoing buttons on his shirt. Harry opened his mouth to allow Draco’s tongue access. Merlin, that perfect, wet, amazing mouth. 

They tugged at each other’s clothes, sucking in air through their noses and refusing to stop snogging. Draco had Harry topless, and reached for his trousers, loosening the belt and opening up the flies. He pulled down on the lot of them, and Harry lifted up to assist. Draco found himself pushing down his own trousers and pants, kicking them off his feet, and then climbing onto Harry’s bare lap—both of them were completely naked. 

Harry _moaned_ into his mouth. Their cocks were both hard, sandwiched between their stomachs as they kept snogging. Draco gyrated against him, making friction—he couldn’t help it. 

Harry broke away, panting, looking back at Draco’s face with dilated pupils. “There’s proper light now, not just the light of the T.V.,” he said breathlessly, and then bit his lip smiling. 

Simultaneously, they looked down at their cocks. And of course Harry’s cock was still perfect—dark and already dripping with pre-cum, and hard _for him_. 

Harry wasted no time in gripping them both in his hand, flush together, stroking them at the same time. It was the most erotic thing Draco had ever seen. And it felt—It felt—Merlin, he was so bloody turned-on. And Harry’s hand was doing all the right things... 

He looked to Harry, who was watching him—with slackened mouth, his bottom lip reddened and wet from snogging. Draco brought his hands up to Harry’s face, cradling it, swiping the pad of his thumb over that bottom lip. 

“ _Harry_.” It’d just come out. 

Harry sucked his thumb into his mouth. Draco gasped. Because... because Harry was sucking on it like it were a cock. And staring back at him, as if daring him. Merlin... 

He pulled his thumb out. “Do you want to...” he asked breathlessly. 

“What?” The prat, he _knew_. 

“Suck each other?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, without even pausing to think about it. 

“Okay, yeah,” Draco said. “Okay but you should know that I haven’t ever...” 

“Me neither,” Harry replied, licking his bottom lip. “Let’s do it at the same time.” 

“Yeah?” 

Harry nodded, already shucking pillows off the sofa behind him to allow for more room. And then he sat back, bringing his legs up and over to move to lie down. 

Draco took a moment to admire Harry’s reclining frame—all nakedness and toned muscles and hard cock and so, so very sexy. And then he remembered he was supposed to do something. “How...” 

“Just lie down, with your head over there,” Harry said, biting on his lip to keep from smiling too much. Merlin, he was perfect. 

So, Draco did as he was told, and shuffled over so that he had Harry’s cock right in his face, and his own in Harry’s. He propped his head up with one hand so that he was properly aligned. Harry took his cock by the hand first, and tentatively licked at the tip. Draco involuntarily let out a guttural noise, and thrust his hips out, just a bit. Harry’s tongue... Fuck. 

Well, he wanted to taste Harry too. So Draco mirrored the movement, gripping by the base and letting out a tentative lick to the very tip. It was a little bitter, but, he liked it. Harry let out a little squeak. 

“Good?” Draco asked. 

“Yes. Fuck,” Harry said breathlessly. “I’m really going... I’m really going to suck you now.” 

“Okay. Good,” Draco said, probably lamely. 

And then Harry’s soft lips were wrapping around his cockhead, and sucking him inside to that hot, wet mouth. Draco saw stars. He was so fucking... Merlin. He needed to do the same to Harry immediately. He needed to taste him, to make him feel as good as it was making Draco feel. So, he mirrored the movement. Mindful of his teeth, he sucked the tip into his mouth, tentatively pressing his tongue to it, and sucking it in deeper. Harry’s cock was _in his mouth_. And he liked it. Loved it, actually. 

He sucked Harry in deeper, letting his cock rub against the roof of his mouth. Deeper, deeper—he sucked him in as far as Draco could handle. And, shit, Harry was doing the exact same to him. He had to force himself to keep from thrusting into Harry’s mouth— _fucking_ Harry’s mouth. 

Merlin, that mouth was so _hot_ , and Harry’s cock in his was so... erotic. Exciting. Delicious. Draco tried to find a rhythm, but everything was so much—just so much. All at once. 

He wasn’t going to last. 

Harry swirled his tongue around Draco’s cockhead, before sucking it in again once more. He was moaning around Draco’s cock. Draco could feel the vibrations of the moans. 

He picked up speed, sucking Harry in and out, in and out, tentatively swirling his tongue, lapping at him, experimenting. And Harry just kept moaning, kept sucking him. The friction—perfect. Everything—perfect. 

He broke away from Harry’s cock, just for a moment, just to warn, “I’m going to come.” 

Harry broke away too, to say, “Come in my mouth.” And then his mouth latched on to Draco’s cock immediately. 

Fuck. 

He wanted Harry to come in his mouth too. He wanted to swallow it. 

So he resumed sucking, with increased fervour. His free hand found Harry’s bollocks, smoothing over them, rolling them in his hand. 

And then Harry was coming, in hot bitter bursts into Draco’s mouth. And Draco swallowed it as it came, lapping at it with abandon, just as he came into Harry’s mouth. 

They rode each other’s orgasms out, sucking softer and softer, as their cocks got softer and softer. 

Harry let Draco pop out of his mouth first. “Oh God,” he said. “That was...” 

Draco let Harry’s cock slip out of his mouth, and rolled onto his back. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Fucking otherworldly.” 

Harry laughed under his breath, splaying himself over Draco, resting his cheek on the hip closest to him, and his hand on the other. “ _Yes_.” His softened cock touched Draco’s shoulder. 

“This was a very good idea.” 

Harry laughed again, thumbing Draco’s hipbone absently. “Yes, it was.” 

Draco stared up at the ceiling—completely maroon-coloured, just like the rest of the room. “I’ve orgasmed more in the past week than I had in months.” 

Harry propped himself up to look at Draco’s face. “Really? Those two times?” 

He winced. “Three, actually. I wanked once in our shower.” 

“Oh?” Harry sounded interested. “Was I there?” 

He exhaled. He didn’t know why he’d brought this up, but he found he didn’t really mind telling Harry. “Yes. Sleeping in the next room.” 

“Mm, I like it.” Harry was thoughtful for a moment. “You weren’t interested in sex before our trip?” 

“I’ve been... depressed.” 

Ah. He found he didn't mind admitting it.

Harry crawled over and lay his head on Draco’s shoulder, throwing his arm across him and squeezing. “I’d... suspected,” he said softly.

“But I don’t think I’m depressed right now.” 

Harry peered up at him, eyes wide and bright. “Yeah?” 

Draco smiled at him. “It’s been... a good week.” 

Harry squeezed him tighter. “It has. For me, too.” He kissed Draco’s chest. “I’m glad you feel like you can tell me these things. If you... if you feel depressed again, will you talk to me about it?” 

Draco exhaled. Would he? Or would he retreat and try to pretend nothing was wrong—as had been his instinct for so long? Well... it was a choice, in the end, wasn’t it? “Yes, I promise I’ll talk to you.” 

“Me too.” 

How could Harry be so unrelentingly kind? So very good? Draco’s heart was fit to burst. He reached up to run his fingertips over Harry’s forearm. 

And then Harry pushed up to capture Draco’s mouth in his. They kissed, slowly, tenderly. 

Harry broke away, to look down at him. “The movie, then?” 

And Draco huffed a laugh. “I’d forgotten all about it.” 

“Of course you did,” Harry said, smiling cheekily. He pushed off of Draco, and moved to grab his pants from the floor. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’ve got to put my pants back on, or we’ll get distracted again and miss the movie. And I’ve picked out the perfect one for you,” he said, as he tossed Draco’s pants at him. 

Draco caught them, and worked to slip them on, going against his preference. But... Harry probably had a point. “Yeah? What’s so perfect about it?” 

Harry’s face lit up. “Okay, so, remember how you told me you love seeing what Muggles dream up about magic?” 

Draco felt a smile growing on his lips, Harry was just so... endearingly enthusiastic. And he remembered that? That one insignificant sentence from that first meal together? “I do.” 

“So they made this movie about the legend of Arthur—there's magic, and it’s even got Merlin in it.” 

Draco sat up. “Merlin? How on earth do they know about Merlin?” 

Harry smiled, the crinkling-eye smile, and shook his head. “No idea.” 

“Fascinating.” 

“I thought you’d think so. It’s called ‘The Sword in the Stone’. It’s another cartoon, just like Mulan.” 

Draco blinked rapidly. “Well go on, then. Let’s watch it.” 

Grinning, Harry fiddled with a remote that’d been on the coffee table, and then fished around the floor for their discarded cushions, putting them all back into place. 

On the screen, large teal letters appeared on blue background, announcing ‘DISTRIBUTED BY Buena Vista DISTRIBUTION CO., INC.’ 

Whatever that all meant. 

Draco exhaled, slow, staring at the words. “You’re so thoughtful, Harry. So unbelievably thoughtful. And wonderful, and fit, and... Merlin, I could list off dozens of compliments, and I could go on wondering how I could ever deserve you as a boyfriend... I just...” 

Harry cuddled into him, wedging under Draco’s arm and kissing at his jaw. “Don’t overthink it. Remember? It doesn’t have to be complicated for no reason.” 

“Right,” Draco said, holding Harry close, and relaxing back into the sofa cushions. “You’re right.” 

A bunch of words and names were flashing over the screen, set to jaunty orchestral music. 

“For the record, I also think you’re wonderful and fit and dozens of compliments,” Harry said, looking up at Draco, looking so sweet and earnest. 

Draco leaned over to kiss his mouth, just for a bit. But the film interrupted with a proper song—a bloke singing some sort of background information, so Draco broke away from the kiss so they could watch. Harry didn’t want them to miss this, after all. 

And so they settled back to watch the film, the first of many Hogwarts movie room viewings. 

And the year went on, and they talked about issues as they came up. They collaborated and communicated, and _tried_. It wasn't always easy—but it was good. 

Draco was the first to say ‘I love you,’ on an unremarkable snowy Sunday morning, after coming back from a brisk walk with the castle doors just a few strides away—when Harry’s nose was red from the cold, and Draco just had to say it. Couldn’t wait a moment longer. 

He’d just said it plainly, out of the blue. He’d looked sideways at Harry as they walked and said, “I love you.” 

And Harry had stopped in his tracks and taken Draco’s cold cheeks in his mittened hands, pressing a hard kiss to Draco’s cold lips. And he’d pulled back with bright, open eyes, and said, “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, hope you liked! ❤️


End file.
